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SI    . 


"-8<soK  136.     SOUTHERN  LITERATURE.    Women  of 

H\A.rrTi.<c"  the   South.     Distinguished  in   Literature.     Illustr. 

Carf-ato*.  with    portraits   on   steel,   by   Mary    Forrest.      Sm. 

/Y.Y-  I9*¥  4to,  full  green  levant.     N.  Y.,  1861.                  7.50 


WOMEN  OF  THE  SOUTH 


DISTINGUISHED  IN  LITERATURE. 


ILLUSTRATED    WITH    PORTRAITS    ON    STEEL. 


BY    MARY    FORREST. 


i^-e  e^^-v^  ^ 


'  There  is  more  owing  her  than  is  paid." — All's  Well  that  Endi  Well. 

"  There  are  some  shrewd  contents  iu  that  same  paper." — Merchant  of  Venice. 

"  Hnw  many  things  by  season  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection." — Vnd. 


NEW    YORK: 
DERBY    &    JACKSON,    498    BROADWAY 


M  DCCC  LXI. 


f-ZOG 
F7 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the*year  1860,  by 
In  tbe  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  tbe  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


W    H.  Tinson,  Stereotyper.  Geo.  Russell  &  Co.,  Printers. 


THIS    VOLUME 

IS      TENDERLY       INSCRIBED      TO 

l^I-S"      MOTHEB. 


M71859 


PORTRAITS 


OCTAVIA  WALTON  LE  VERT, Frontispiece 

ANNA   CORA   MOW  ATT   RITCHIE, 80 

MARIA   J.    McINTOSH, 163 

MARION   HARLAND, 195 

ROSA   VERTNER  JOHNSON,    .                                   245 

AUGUSTA   J.    EVANS, 328 

L.   VIRGINIA   FRENCH, 439 


'  Measure  not  the  work 


Until  the  day  's  out  and  the  labor  done  ; 

Then  bring  your  gauges.      If  the  day's  work  's  scant, 

Why,  call  it  scant ;  affect  no  compromise ; 

And,  in  that  we  have  nobly  striven  at  least,! 

Deal  with  us  nobly,  women  though  we  be, 

And  honor  us  with  truth,  if  not  with  praise." 

Aurora  Leigh. 


PREFACE. 


Reader  : 

If  you  would  establish  a  belief  in  magnetic 
currents,  personal  and  spiritual,  write  a  book  of 
biographical  sketches.  There  is  nothing  like  it  for 
bringing  one's  sharpest  instincts  into  play,  and — 
so  to  speak — charging  one's  self  fully  with  idiocratic 
influence.  There  are  the  lettei's  from  the  several 
"subjects,"- — every  chirographical  kink  a  corporeal  or 
psychological  sign  ;  every  sentence  an  efflux  of  being, 
attracting  or  repelling  you.  Then  the  data,  studded 
with  epochs,  from  each  one  of  which  depends  a 
tale — close  folded,  it  is  true,  yet,  by  virtue  of  the 
clairvoyance  you  have  assumed,  electric  and  portentous. 
Living  so  many  lives,  one  feels,  of  course,  preter- 
naturally  old — and  wise — when  the  task  is  ended. 
Happy  biographer,  whose  lines,  like  my  own,  have 
fallen  in   "pleasant  places!" 

Women  of  the  South,  whose  names  are  heroin 
written — who,  one  after  another,  have  sat  down  in 
the  chair  before  me  (now  a  melancholy  void),  filling 
the  air  with  such  a  gracious  "  bonhomie  of  presence  " 
— a  flitting,  fair,  familiar  company — to  you  I  would 
say,  T  have  aimed  at  impartial  estimates  of  your  writ- 


VI  PREFACE. 

ings,  while  I  have  presented  each  one  with  such  fullness 
of  detail  as,  from  personal  and  other  knowledge,  I  felt 
justified  in  using  freely.  In  the  necessity  for  dispatch, 
however,  the  work — going  to  press  in  detached  parts — 
was  found  at  last  to  extend  far  beyond  the  limits  pro- 
posed ;  no  alternative  remained  but  to  cut  down  the 
sum  of  specimen  extracts  still  unstereotyped,  and 
apportion  to  each  one  of  their  authors  but  a  small 
part  of  what  was  originally  assigned  them.  With  this 
broader  estimate  of  Southern  resource,  a  larger  book 
and  "  free  circulation  "  shall  sometime  make  amends. 

Deserving  and  popular  writers,  as  the  authors  of 
"Busy  Moments  of  An  Idle  Woman,"  "Sylvia's  World," 
"Recollections  of  Washington,"  "  Silverwood,"  and 
others,  whose  incognita  I  could  not  presume  to  in- 
vade :  let  me  say  here,  I  have  omitted  your  names 
with  a  regretful  sense  of  honor  lost  to  myself  and  my 
cause.  "Sylvia's  World,"  especially,  bears  the  stamp 
of  a  strong  hand,  and  will  yet,  I  trust,  be  given  to  the 
world  with  the  name  of  the  author. 

For  the  many  courtesies  extended — for  the  facilities 
afforded  in  the  use  of  published  and  unpublished  works 
— least  of  all  for  the  warm,  womanly  hands  and  hearts 
which  I  have  found  in  friendly  letters — I  have  no 
thanks;  but  my  good  and  loyal  "subjects"  will  not 
mistake  my  silence. 

The  portraits  have  been  made  expressly  for  this 
volume,  and,  with  one  exception,  from  life. 

New  York,  August,   1860. 


CONTENTS 


OCTATIA  WALTON  LE  VERT:  page 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 13 

AX  ADDRESS  UPON  LAYING  THE  CORNER  STONE  OP  THE  CLAY  MONUMENT...  29 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  CONTINENTALS  OF  MOBILE 31 

AN  EVENING  WITH  LAMARTINE.     From  the  "  Souvenirs  of  Travel  " 82 

FAREWELL  TO  VENICE.     From  the  Same 83 

THE  WAY  OVER  THE  SIMPLON.     From  the  Same 35 

ERUPTION  OF  VESUVIUS.      From  the  Same 8S 

SILVER  AND  GOLDEN  ILLUMINATIONS.     From  the  Same 40 

BALL  OF  THE  COUNTESS  DE  WALEWSKI.     From  the  Same 41 

THE  COLISEUM.     From  the  Same 43 

THE  HOME  OF  THE  BROWNINGS.     From  the  Same 45 

JENNY  LIND 46 

CAROLINE    GrlLMAJST: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 4S 

THE  LOST  MAIL 55 

MY  KNITTING-WORK 62 

THE  PLANTATION 63 

TO  THE  URSULINES 65 

MY  PIAZZA 68 


X  CONTENTS. 

CAROLINE    HOWARD: 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 68 

ADVENTURE  IN  THE  CAVE.     From  "  Vernon  Grove  " TO 

SPRING-TIME.     From  the  Same "6 

TO  A  BELOVED  VOICE.     From  the  Same "S 

ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCHIE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 80 

MESMERIC  SOMNAMBULISM.      From  "  Autobiography  of  an  Actress " 95 

AN  OLD  MAID 96 

WOMAN'S  FRIENDSHIP 90 

LADY  TEAZLE'S  INOPPORTUNE  NAP.     From  "Autobiography  of  an  Actress" 102 

JULIET'S  DAGGER.     From  the  Same 103 

JULIET'S  TOMB.    From  the  Same 104 

THE  REPRESENTATIVE  BALCONY.     From  the  Same 105 

THE  INKY  POTION.     From  the  Same 105 

THE  CAUTIOUS  ACTOR.     From  the  Same, 106 

HAPPINESS.     From  "  Armand  " 107 

ARMAND'S  GRIEF.     From  the  Same 108 

ARMAND'S  LOVE.     From  the  Same 109 

ARMAND'S  TRUTH.     From  the  Same 1"0 

VIRTUE  ITS  OWN  SHIELD,      From  the  Same 110 

MR.  AND  MRS.  TIFFANY  AT  HOME.      From  "  Fashion  " Ill 

CATHARINE  ANNE  WARPIBLD: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 114 

THE  HOUSEHOLD  OF  BOUVERIE.     From  "The  Household  of  Bouverie" US 

GENIUS.     From  the  Same  1-3 

RELIGION.    From  the  Same 125 

THE  SECRET  CHAMBER  AND  ITS  OCCUPANT.     From  the  Same 126 

ELIXIR  OF  GOLD  AND  BLOOD.     From  the  Same 129 

LEGEND  OF  TnE  INDIAN  CHAMBER.     From  "Book  of  Poems" 132 

THE  FOE'S  RETURN.     From  the  Same 142 

I  HAVE  SEEN  THIS  PLACE  BEFORE.     From  the  Same 145 


CONTENTS.  XI 
CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD— Continued: 

PAGE 

MADELINE.     From  the  Same   146 

UNHOLY  LOVE.     From  the  Same 148 

ELEANOR    PERCY    LEE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 150 

THE  DESERTED  HOUSE.     From  "  Book  of  Poems  " 151 

THE  LILY  OF  THE  NILE.     From  the  Same 155 

THE  ANCESTRESS.    From  the  Same 157 

THE  CHILD  OF  MANY  TEARS.     From  the  Same 158 

THE  SUN-STRUCK  EAGLE.     From  the  Same 160 

BURY  HER  WITH  HER  SHINING  HAIR.     From  the  Same 161 

MAEIA  J.    MCINTOSH: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 163 

WOMAN,  HER  OFFICES  AND  HER  POWERS.     From  "Woman  in  America" 170 

OUT  OF  THE  MOUTHS  OF  BABES.    From  "Charms  and  Counter-Charms  " 172 

A  SOUTHERN  HOME.    From  a  work  in  preparation 175 

VIOLET;  OR,  THE  CROSS  AND  THE  CROWN 176 

THE  RIVEN  HEART.     From  unpublished  Poems 181 

FROWN  NOT.     From  the  Same 182 

NO  MORE.    From  the  Same 1S2 

ASPIRATION.     From  the  Same 1S3 

ALMIRA    LINCOLN    PHELPS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Is! 

A  NEW  ENGLAND  FAMILY.     From  "  Hours  With  My  Pupils  " 1S7 

SOUTHERN  HOUSEKEEPERS.     From  the  Same 100 

TRUTH  AND  SINCERITY.    From  the  Same 190 

BELLES,     From  the  Same 193 

MARION    HARLAND: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 195 

CAMP-MEETING  SCENE.     From  "Alone" 1" 

MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN.     From  "The  Hidden  Path" 808 


x[[  CONTENTS. 

MARION    HARLAXD— Continued : 

PAGE 

NEMESIS.     From  book  in  preparation 210 

213 


LOVE  ME.     From  "  Alone  " 

AT  PEACE.     From  "  The  Hidden  Path  ' 


215 


2G0 


263 


EMMA    T3.    E.    IT.    SPUTHWOBTH: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH   216 

LADY  ETHERIDGE  BECOMES  A  GOVERNESS.     From  "  Rose  Elmer  " 224 

THE  HAUNTED  HOMESTEAD 285 

ROSA    VERTNER    JOHNSON: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 245 

HASHEESH  VISIONS 2*S 

MY  CHILDHOOD'S  HOME.     From  Hook  of  Poems 2o° 

ANGEL  WATCHERS.     From  the  Same : 257 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  OPAL.     From  the  Same 

THE  NIGHT  HAS  COME.     From  tin- Same 

THE  COMET  OF  lfSS.     From  the  Same 

CAROLINE    LEE    HENTX 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 265 

"THEY  SAY."     From  "  Ernest  Linwood  ". .      2?1 

FAME.     From  the  Same 2T1 

UNION  WITHOUT  LOVE.     From  the  Same 272 

THE  BLACK  MASK.     From  "  The  Banished  Son  " 2"2 

DE  LARA'S  BRIDE.     From  "  De  Lara,  or  The  Moorish  Bride  " 2S5 

THE  SNOW-FLAKES 28T 

A  MARTIAL  SONG 289 

SALLY     ROCHESTER    FORD: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 291 

MY  FATHER'S  WILL 293 

THE  RETREAT.     From  "Grace  Trueman " 299 

AUNT  PEGGY  A  LOGICIAN.     From  the  Same 302 

THE  BAPTISM.     From  the  Same 303 


CONTENTS.  XIU 

SUSAN    AECHEE    TALLKY.  ^ 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 809 

ENNERSLIE.     From  Book  of  Poems 818 

SUMMER  NOON  DAY  DKEAM.     From  the  Same 322 

THE  SIRENS.     From  the  Same 825 

REST.     From  the  Same 826 

ATJO-TTSTA    J.    EVANS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 32S 

LILLY'S  DEATH.     From"Beulah" 888 

BECLAH  BENTON  AND  GUY  HARTWELL  AS  LOVERS.     From  the  Same 888 

FIRST  STEP  INTO  THE  DARK.     From  the  Same 841 

CORNELIA  GRAHAM'S  DEATH.     From  the  Same 84s 

TRUTH  AT  LAST  TRIUMPHANT.   From  the  Same 849 

A   WIFE'S  DIVINE  MINISTRY.     Fiom  the  Satne 851 

JANE    T.    H.    CROSS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH S54 

SCARLET  GERANIUMS.     From  "  Wayside  Flowerets  " 85(i 

LA  PETITE  FEE.     From  "  D.ift-Wood  V 85s 


THE  MAGIC  RING.     From  the  Same. 


81)0 


THE  MAN-ANGEL.     From  ••  Heart-Blossoms  " 868 

SYRINGA.     From  "  Wayside  Flowerets  " 865 


THE  RILL.     From  the  Same. 


866 


SONNET.     From  "The  Home  Circle" 8CT 

MARY    S.    B.    DANA    SHINDLEE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 869 

THE  MORNING  STAR  OF  THE  SPIRIT.     From  "  The  Southern  Harp  " 872 

THE  FADED  PLOWER  AND  THE  CRUSHED  HEART.     From  the  Same 8T8 

THE  BLEST  ETERNAL  HOME.     From  the  Same 873 

SUED  NOT  A  TEAR.     From  the  Same 8"4 

LIKE  A  DREAM  WHEN  ONE  AWAKETH.     From  the  Same 874 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

ANN    ELIZA    BTJTPTJY: 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 376 

THE  PLANTER'S  DAUGHTER 379 

THE  HUGUENOT  EXILES 881 

AMELIA    B.    WELBY: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 886 

NOTE  TO  BEN  KUORASSAN 88S 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  SISTER  POET.     From  "  Poems  by  Amelia" 3S9 

THE  GREEN  MOSSY  BANK  WHERE  THE  BUTTERCUPS  GREW.     From  the  Same. . .  .  890 

MUSINGS,    FromtheSame 891 

TO  THE  SKY-LARK.    FromtheSame 894 

THE  FREED  BIRD.     FromtheSame 396 

WHEN  SOFT  STARS.     From  the  Same 89S 

THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD.     FromtheSame 399 

THOU  CANST  NOT  FORGET  ME.    FromtheSame 401 

ON  ENTERING  MAMMOTH  CAVE.    FromtheSame 402 

KATE   A.   BUT  BOSE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 407 

THE  PASTOR'S  DAUGHTER 409 

WACHULLA 412 

A.    R.   BLOTTNT   AND    C.    B.    SINCLAIR: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 416 

NOTICE  OF  THEIR  POEMS.     By  John  R.  Thompson 417 

WHAT  THE  MOON  SHINES  ON.     From  Miss  Blount's  Poems 419 

DREAMING.     From  Miss  Sinclair's  Poems - 423 

LIZZIE    PETIT: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 425 

BENEDICK,  THE  MARRIED  MAN.     From  "  Light  and  Darkness  " 480 

SALLIE    ABA.   REEBY: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 435 

THE  BRIDAL.     From  the  Book  of  Poems  in  preparation 436 


CONTENTS.  XV 

L.   VIRGINIA   FRENCH:  p4oB 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 439 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  INFERNAL  PASS 444 

LEGEND  OF  THE  LOST  SOUL 448 

UNWRITTEN  MUSIC 4B2 

ALONE 454 

MISERERE  OF  THE  PINES  455 

THE  GHOULS 457 

MADAME  LE  VERT'S  "SOUVENIRS  OF  TRAVEL" 459 

MARY    E.   BRYAN: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 464 

CUTTING  ROBBIE'S  HAIR 468 

THE  HOUR  WHEN  WE  SHALL  MEET  AGAIN    470 

THE  MISSING  FLOWER «2 

ANNA   PEYEE    LINNIES: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH •  *T6 

THE  WIFE 477 

LOVE'S  MESSENGERS 47S 

WEDDED    LOVE 478 

LOUISA-    S.    MCCORD: 

BIOQ KAPHICAL  SKETCH 480 

CORNELIA  AND  GRACCHUS.     From  a  Tragedy 482 

IVXARY   ELIZABETH   LEE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 485 

THE  POETS 486 

AN  EASTERN  LOVE  SONG 4SS 

THE  LAST  PLACE  OF  SLEEP 468 

GEORGIANA   A.    HTJLSE    MCLEOD: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 480 

LOU  LINDSAY'S  BRIDAL   491 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

GEORGIAN A    A.   HULSE    McLEOD— Continded: 

PAGE 

SUNBEAMS  AND  SHADOWS 491 

THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER 49'2 

PASSERS-BY 498 


MARY   J.    WINDLE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 495 

ALICE  HEATH'S  INTERVIEW  WITH  CROMWELL 495 


WRITERS   NOT  YET  AUTHORS. 

JANE    T.    WORTHINGTON: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH , 499 

THE  POOR 499 

R.    JACOBUS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 501 

THE  SECOND  WIFE 503 

THE  WIND 604 

ESSIE    B.    CHBB8BOROUGH: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 506 

A  THOUGHT  IN  A  DREAM 500 

A  SKELETON  IN  EVERY  HEART 507 

EMELIE    C.    S.    CHILTON: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 50g 

OCTOBER 509 

THE  WRENS  IN  THE  LOCUST-TREE.... 510 


WOMEN  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT. 

Feedbika  Beemee  calls  the  subject  of  this  sketch  her 
"  sweet  Eose  of  Florida."  She  certainly  is  a  "  Eose  that  all 
are  praising."  It  would  require  the  scope  of  a  full  biography 
to  change  this  rose  into  a  bud,*  and  then,  petal  by  petal,  to 
unfold  the  bud  again  to  the  rose ;  after  all,  we  might  not  find 
the  dew-drop  at  its  heart,  nor  be  able  to  trace  out  its  blended 
tints  and  exhalations. 

Only  recently  has  Madame  Le  Vert  appeared  before  the 
world  as  an  author.  Long  before  she  accepted  the  idea,  often 
suggested  to  her,  of  writing  a  book,  she  was,  perhaps,  more 
widely  known  than  any  woman  of  America.  Nature  evidently 
planned  her,  on  a  large,  comprehensive  scale,  a  social  genius. 
and  all  her  good  gifts  are  cut  and  polished  to  this  end. 

Thoroughly  cosmopolitan  in  spirit,  she  acquires  with  great 
facility  the  languages  and  idioms  which  make  her  at  home 
with  different  nations.  We  have  seen  her  the  centre  of  a 
group  made  up  of  representatives  from  France,  Spain,  Italy, 

*"Aa  if  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again." — Keats. 

18 


14  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Germany,  and  her  own  country,  apparently  not  only  in  bril- 
liant rapport  with  each,  through  the  medium  of  his  own 
vetvxacular,h).t  prying  the  whole  circle  in  sympathy — stringing 
all  upon  the  thread  of  her  own  magnetism.  With  this  rare 
t;i;Jitit;\y  sue  Ikio _twii;e  flitted  through  the  countries  of  the  Old 
World,  leaving  her  name  playing  like  a  sunbeam  on  every 
city  and  village,  and  in  the  hearts,  alike,  of  the  titled  and 
the  lowly.  She  was  made  up  without  antipathies,  and,  in 
place  of  them,  has  large  adaptation  and  tolerance,  which, 
together  with  her  womanly  graces,  eminently  fit  her  for  the 
office  of  social  harmonizer.  There  are  few  spheres  so  malig- 
nant as  to  repel  her  utterly,  and,  if  repelled,  her  sunny  soul 
does  not  seem  to  receive  any  positive  shock.  She  is  more 
electric  than  eclectic,  and  something  better  than  either — she 
was  never  known  to  speak  or  act  an  unkindness. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  the  different  impressions  which 
Madame  Le  Vert  conveys  to  different  minds  ;  to  see  how  hard 
it  is  for  us  to  accept  anything  but  a  glaring  extraneous  cause 
for  a  fine  effect.  We  had  read  many  of  the  newspaper  sketches 
of  her,  and  listened  to  countless  relations  of  her  varied  accom- 
plishments, but  had  failed  to  recognize  her  specific  charm, 
until  a  little  child,  who  had  been  sitting,  one  day,  in  her 
presence,  thinking  a  child's  "  long,  long  thoughts,"  came  to 
whisper  softly  in  our  ear :  "  She  isn't  a  fine  lady  at  all :  she 
is  just  like  me,  and  I  love  her!"  The  darling!  Through 
all  the  eclat  and  circumstance  of  the  famous,  flush  woman,  this 
six-summered  soul  had  discovered  and  paid  tribute  to  its  sweet 
counterpart. 

We  can,  perhaps,  have  no  better  proof  of  the  extended  fame 
and  popularity  of  Madame  Le  Vert,  than  the  fact  that,  for  many 
years,  she  has  been  the  capital  in  trade  of  our  rhymesters  and 
penny-a-liners,  and,  like  George  Washington  in  the  compositions 
of  the  school-children,  subject  to  every  variety  of  well-inten- 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  15 

tioned  caricature.  High  critical  authorities,  even,  emerging 
from  the  spell  of  her  personal  presence,  have  grown  florid  and 
rhapsodical,  until  we  have  sometimes  thought  that  the  spirit  of 
this  charming  little  woman  must  ache  in  every  part,  with  its 
weight  of  "  glittering  generalities."  For  her  sake,  we  shall 
make  this  sketch,  as  far  as  possible,  a  thing  of  features  and  facts. 

George  Walton,  the  grandfather  of  Madame  Le  Yert,  and 
one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  was  a 
native  of  Prince  Edward  County,  Va.,  but  removed  in  early 
life  to  Georgia,  where  his  fine  gifts  and  chivalric  character  soon 
placed  him  in  a  distinguished  position.  He  received  his  first 
wound  in  the  service  of  his  country,  while  leading  on  his 
regiment  at  the  siege  of  Savannah  ;  was  a  member  of  the  first 
Congress,  convened  at  Philadelphia,  and  afterward  held  succes- 
sively the  honorable  offices  of  Governor  of  Georgia  and  Judge 
of  the  Supreme  Court. 

Not  long  before  the  Revolution,  he  married  Miss  Camber, 
the  daughter  of  an  English  nobleman,  to  whom  the  crown  had 
given  large  possessions  in  the  colony  of  Georgia.  When  the 
American  sky  grew  dark  with  the  coming  storm,  her  father 
insisted  upon  her  return  to  England  ;  but  she  refused  to  leave 
her  rebel  husband,  and  followed  him  with  true  womanly  hero- 
ism through  the  perilous  days  which  succeeded.  Soon  after  the 
siege  of  Savannah,  she  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  British  and 
sent  to  one  of  the  West  India  islands,  where  she  remained  until 
an  exchange  was  effected.  It  was  the  great  delight  of  our 
author,  when  a  little  child,  to  listen  to  her  grandmother's  thrill- 
ing narrations  of  scenes  as  they  then  transpired.  Reared  as  an 
English  heiress,  young,  gifted  and  beautiful,  her  devotion  to  her 
adopted  country  should  give  her  name  an  honorable  place 
among  the  heroines  of  the  Revolution. 

Madame  Le  Vert  has  now  in  her  possession  many  letters 
addressed  to  Colonel  Walton  by  General  Washington,  Lafayette, 


16  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

the  elder  Adams,  Jefferson,  and  other  noted  men  of  those 
days,  in  which  his  descendants  are  proud  to  trace  assurances  of 
their  high  confidence  and  regard.  In  1S0S,  he  died  at  his 
country  seat,  near  Augusta,  Georgia,  leaving  two  children,  one 
of  whom,  the  father  of  our  author,  still  lives,  and  hears  his 
honored  name. 

George  "Walton,  the  second,  was  educated  at  Princeton,  Xew 
Jersey,  and  married  Miss  Sally  Minge  "Walker,  the  daughter  of 
an  eminent  lawyer  of  Georgia.  To  her  brilliant  gifts  and 
accomplishments  the  world  is,  no  doubt,  indebted  for  many  of 
the  characteristics  of  her  distinguished  daughter. 

In  1812,  Colonel  "Walton  became  a  member  of  the  Legisla- 
ture of  Georgia,  and  held  the  position  for  many  years  with 
honor.  In  1821,  he  was  appointed  Secretary  of  State  under 
General  Jackson,  then  Governor  of  Florida,  and  when  the  old 
chief  retired  to  the  "  Hermitage,"  succeeded  him  in  office.  In 
1830,  he  was  elected  to  the  Legislature  of  Florida,  and,  in  1835, 
removed  to  Mobile,  Alabama,  where  he  held  for  two  years  the 
office  of  Mayor.  Since  then  he  has  travelled  much  in  this 
country  and  Europe,  and  filled  various  important  positions. 
He  is  now,  at  sixty-nine  years  of  age,  in  vigorous  health,  and 
one  of  the  raciest  conversationists  of  the  day. 

Octavia  "Walton  was  born  at  Belle  Vue,  near  Augusta,  Ga., 
but  her  parents  removing  soon  after  to  Florida,  her  first  memo- 
ries are  of  the  sunshine  and  flowers  of  Pensacola :  in  her  own 
vivid  words,  "  of  the  orange  and  live-oak  trees,  shading  the 
broad  veranda;  of  the  fragrant  acacia,  oleander,  and  Cape 
jasmin  trees,  which  filled  the  parterre  sloping  down  to  the 
sea-beach ;  of  merry  races  with  my  brother  along  the  white 
sands,  while  the  creamy  waves  broke  over  my  feet,  and  the 
delicious  breeze  from  the  gulf  played  in  my  hair  ;  of  the  pet 
mocking-birds  in  the  giant  oak  by  my  window,  whose  songs 
called  me  each  morning  from  dreamland." 


OCTAVIA    WALTON     LE    VERT.  17 

Pensacola,  situated  on  a  noble  bay,  was  the  rendezvous  of 
the  United  States  vessels  of  the  Gulf  station.  It  was  a  gala 
time  when  they  returned  from  their  cruises  ;  balls  and  parties 
at  the  governor's  house — splendid  entertainments  on  board  the 
ships — moonlight  excursions  upon  the  bay,  and  pic-nics  in  the 
magnolia  groves.  The  well-educated  and  chivalric  officers 
were  a  large  element  in  the  society  to  which  our  author  was 
thus  early  accustomed  ;  and  while  yet  a  mere  child,  she  had 
little  to  learn  in  the  way  of  drawing-room  ease  and  ele- 
gance. 

Amid  such  scenes,  her  receptive  nature  seems  to  have 
absorbed  that  tropical  exuberance  of  thought,  feeling,  language, 
and jyresmce,  -which  has  made  her  name  famous  ;  while  at  the 
same  time,  an  early  and  close  relation  with  nature,  in  one  of  her 
most  tender  and  bounteous  aspects,  preserved  intact,  amid  all 
precocious  tendencies,  the  name  simplicity  of  the  child,  which 
is  to  this  clay  her  crowning  grace. 

Before  the  age  of  twelve  years,  she  could  write  and  converse 
in  three  languages  with  facility.  So  unusual  was  her  talent  as 
a  linguist,  that  it  was  the  custom  of  her  father  to  take  her  to 
his  office  to  translate  from  the  French  or  Spanish  the  most 
important  letters  connected  with  affairs  of  state.  There,  perched 
upon  a  high  stool— she  was  too  tiny  in  stature  to  be  made 
available  otherwise — she  would  interpret,  with  the  greatest  ease 
and  correctness,  the  tenor  and  spirit  of  foreign  dispatches, 
proving  herself,  thus  early,  quite  worthy  of  her  illustrious 
descent. 

During  her  father's  administration,  as  Governor  of  Florida, 
he  located  the  seat  of  government,  and,  at  the  earnest  request 
of  his  little  daughter,  Octavia,  called  it  by  the  Indian  name  of 
"  Tallahassee."'  Its  signification  ("  beautiful  land  ")  fell  musi- 
cally upon  the  ear  of  the  imaginative  child  ;  she  was  greatly 
interested,  too,  in  the  old  Seminole  king,  Neamathla,  who,  in 

2 


18  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

the  days  of  his  power,  struck  his  tent-pole    in  that  ground, 
made  it  his  resting-place,  and  called  it  first  by  this  sweet  name. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  Indians  to  go  every  year  to  Pensa- 
cola  to  receive  presents  from  the  governor.  Neamathla  grew 
very  fond  of  the  young  Octavia,  and  when  the  temptations  of 
civilized  life  induced  any  of  his  retinue  to  depart  from  his 
commands,  they  would  always  seek  the  intercession  of  the 
governor's  daughter,  who  was  known  among  them  as  the 
"  White  Dove  of  Peace." 

Among  many  interesting  incidents  of  her  early  life,  Madame 
Le  Vert  remembers  an  interview  with  Lafayette,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  last  visit  to  the  South.  He  had  written  to  her  grand- 
mother, begging  her,  if  possible,  to  meet  him  at  Mobile,  but 
the  infirmities  of  age  beginning  at  this  time  to  weigh  some- 
what heavily  upon  her,  she  determined  to  send  a  worthy  repre- 
sentative in  the  person  of  the  graceful  and  versatile  Octavia. 

After  the  arrival  and  grand  reception  of  Lafayette  at 
Mobile,  Octavia  and  her  mother  were  quietly  presented  by  the 
committee  of  arrangements,  and  the  little  fair-haired  envoy 
then  placed  in  his  hands  the  miniature  of  her  grandfather,  to 
which  she  bore  striking  resemblance.  For  some  minutes  he 
gazed  upon  both  pictures  in  silence ;  then,  bursting  into  tears, 
caught  the  child  to  his  heart,  exclaiming:  "The  living  image 
of  my  brave  and  noble  friend!"  Along  and  interesting  inter- 
view ensued,  the  young  Octavia,  seated  upon  the  knee  of  the 
old  hero,  holding  him  spell-bound  witli  her  piquant  and  fluent 
use  of  his  native  tongue.  He  then  folded  her  again  to  his  heart 
and  blessed  her  fervently,  remarking  to  one  of  the  committee,  as 
she  left  the  room :  "  A  truly  wonderful  child !  She  lias  been 
conversing  all  this  while  with  intelligence  and  tact  in  the  purest 
French.  I  predict  for  her  a  brilliant  career."  Oracular  words, 
which  the  records  of  years  have  more  than  confirmed. 

But  Octavia  Walton  did  not  sit  passively  down  to  await  the 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  19 

fulfillment  of  Lafayette's  prophecy.  One  great  secret  of  her 
success  lies  in  her  indefatigable  industry.  Only  by  close 
application  has  she  taken  the  true  gauge  of  herself — brought 
into  view  every  resource — into  play  every  faculty  ;  only  thus 
has  she  become  conversant  with  classical  and  scientific  studies, 
made  herself  mistress  of  many  languages,  a  proficient  in  music, 
an  elocpient  conversationist,  and  a  ready  writer ;  and,  by  a  no 
less  fine  and  careful  culture,  has  she  been  able,  in  every  phase  of 
her  life,  to  evolve  only  light  and  warmth  from  her  large  human 
heart ;  to  bring  to  the  surface  the  best  qualities  of  all  who 
came  within  her  influence ;  to  charm  away  detraction,  and  to 
preserve,  apart  from  her  world-woman  aspect,  a  child-nature, 
as  pure  and  undimmed  as  a  pearl  in  the  sea. 

Octavia  was  never  placed  within  the  walls  of  a  schoolroom. 
Her  mother  and  grandmother,  both  women  of  intellect  and  cul- 
tivation, vied  with  each  other  in  developing  her  earlier  mental 
life,  and  private  tutors  were  provided  to  meet  the  needs  of  her 
advance.  She  and  her  brother  pursued  their  studies  for  years 
under  the  eye  of  an  old  Scotchman,  a  fine  classic  scholar  and 
linguist,  who  had  lived  in  the  family  since  their  birth,  as  devoted 
an  adherent  as  was  ever  Dominie  Sampson  to  the  House  of 
Bertram. 

Soon  after  their  removal  to  Mobile,  Octavia,  in  company 
with  her  mother  and  brother,  made  the  tour  of  the  United  States ; 
and  then  commenced  the  remarkable  career  as  a  social  jrenius. 
which  gave  to  the  name  of  Octavia  "Walton  its  world-wide  cele- 
brity.  Possessing  the  entree  of  the  most  select  circles  in  each 
city  of  the  Union,  she  suddenly  awoke  to  the  fact  that  she  held 
also  a  magic  key  to  human  hearts,  and  could  sway  at  will  the 
moods  and  emotions  of  those  who  surrounded  her — a  knowledge 
and  position  alike  dangerous.  She  was  crowned  "reigning 
belle"  by  acclamation:  a  title,  which,  worn  as  it  so  often  is  by 
the  weak  and  frivolous,  or  the  vain  and  heartless,  has  ever  done 


20  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

injustice  to  the  high-toned  and  comprehensive  character  of  our 
author.  That  she  was  more  than  a  mere  belle  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  her  name  was  never  spoken  lightly,  and  of  all  who  then 
offered  her  the  highest  tribute  in  the  gift  of  man,  she  has  never 
lost  a  friend. 

These  were  the  good  old  days  of  stage-coaches,  when  travel- 
lers, thrown  together  by  the  accident  of  sympathy  in  the 
"  destined  end  or  way,"  had  ample  time  to  cultivate  affinities  or 
antipathies  ;  and  it  so  happened  that  our  party  became  greatly 
interested  in  a  strange  gentleman,  who  took  his  seat  among 
them  each  morning,  as  naturally  as  if  included  in  the  first 
arrangement.  There  was  a  pleasing  mystery  about  him.  He 
was  in  the  meridian  of  life,  of  a  most  gracious  presence  :  had  evi 
dently  been  the  round  world  over :  was  possessed  of  a  fund  of 
humor  and  anecdote,  and  conversed  with  clearness  and  elegance, 
like  one  accustomed  to  write  out  impressions ;  he  was  certainly 
a  distinguished  somebody — and  who  ? 

There  was  too  much  good  breeding  on  both  sides  to  evince 
curiosity.  The  unknown  continued  to  grow  into  favor,  espe 
cially  with  the  young  Octavia,  whose  vivacious  intelligence 
seemed  very  much  to  delight  him.  One  day,  as  she  was  con- 
versing with  her  brother  in  Spanish,  the  stranger,  with  a  quiet 
grace,  joined  in  the  conversation  ;  he  had  spent  some  years  in 
Spain,  and  was  at  home  in  the  language.  "While  describing  in 
his  graphic  way  a  bull-fight  which  he  had  witnessed,  he  dwelt 
particularly  upon  a  singular  incident  that  occurred  in  connec- 
tion. Peculiar  as  the  incident  was  to  that  one  occasion,  ( )ctavia 
is  certain  she  has  heard  it  in  some  way  before. 

"  It  cannot  be,"  said  the  narrator,  "  for  I  am  sure  there  is 
no  record  of  it,  and  you  have  never  been  in  Spain." 

But  ( (ctavia  was  never  known  to  forget.     With  a  moment's 
thought  her  whole  face  brightened. 

"  You  are  Washington  Irving." 


OCTAVIA    WALTOX    LE    VERT.  21 

"  And  pray  why  am  I  Washington  Irving  ?" 

"  Because  now  I  remember  that  Mr.  S 11,  of  1ST.  0.,  told 

me  of  this  identical  incident,  and  added  that  Washington  Irving 
stood  by  his  side  when  he  witnessed  it." 

So  here  was  revealed  the  genial  writer  of  the  "Sketch 
Book,"  no  stranger  after  all,  but  an  old  and  dear  friend,  whose 
name  was  a  household  word.  The  stage-coach  party  became  at 
once  a  fireside  circle,  unrestrained,  harmonious,  warmed  and 
lighted  by  the  glow  of  a  common  sympathy.  Impressed  more 
and  more  with  the  quick  retentive  quality  of  Octavia's  mind, 
her  large  observation  and  racy  expression,  Mr.  Irving  advised 
her  to  commence  a  journal,  dating  from  this,  her  first  experience 
as  a  traveller ;  adding  that  she  would  be  sure  some  day  to  find 
it  an  invaluable  resource.  From  that  time  to  the  present  her 
life  has  been  journalized  ;  a  mine  indeed  of  rich  material  for  the 
autobiography  which  it  is  hoped  she  will  yet  give  to  the  world. 
Thus  began  a  friendship  which  was  only  interrupted  by  the 
death  of  Mr.  Irving.  He  became  her  faithful  correspondent, 
and  watched  her  career  from  that  period  with  true  fatherly 
interest.  During  her  last  visit  to  New  York,  he  sought  her 
mure  than  once  in  the  crowded  saloons  of  the  St.  Nicholas,  and 
twice  claimed  her  as  his  guest.  Their  last  interview  at "  Sunny 
Side"  was  filled  with  reminiscent  chat,  in  which  the  stage- 
coach party  was  vividly  pictured,  and  the  genial  host  dwelt 
in  his  happiest  vein  upon  all  the  incidents  of  the  journey.  At 
parting,  he  said  softly :  "  I  feel  as  if  the  sunshine  was  all  going 
away  with  you,  my  child."  It  was  their  last  meeting  on  earth, 
and  this  beautiful  tribute  has  now  a  sacred  value. 

During  the  administration  of  Jackson,  in  those  memoral  >le 
times,  when,  with  a  daring  hand,  he  removed  the  deposits, 
Octavia  "Walton  was  each  day  an  earnest  listener  to  the  debates 
in  Congress,  and  transferred  at  once  to  the  pages  of  her  diary 
the  speeches  of  Calhoun,  Clay,  and  Webster.     These  three  were 


22  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

her  warm  personal  friends,  especially  Mr.  Clay,  to  whose 
memory  she  has  since  offered  a  glowing  and  affectionate  testi- 
monial. 

In  1836,  she  married  Dr.  Henry  Le  Vert,  of  Mobile,  a  man 
equally  noted  for  his  professional  skill  and  high  moral  worth. 
His  father,  Dr.  Claude  Le  Yert,  who  was  a  native  of  France, 
came  to  America  with  Lafayette,  as  fleet  surgeon  under 
Rochambeau,  and  was  present  at  the  taking  of  Yorktown.  In 
the  palace  of  Versailles  there  is  a  large  painting  representing 
the  reception  of  Rochambeau  and  his  officers  by  Washington  ; 
conspicuous,  on  the  left,  may  be  seen  the  fine  head  and  com- 
manding person  of  Dr.  Claude  Le  Vert.  After  peace  was  pro- 
claimed, he  left  the  French  navy  and  settled  in  Virginia,  where 
he  married  Miss  Metcalf,  the  niece  of  Admiral  Vernon,  in 
honor  of  whom  Lawrence  "Washington,  who  had  served  under 
him  in  South  America,  named  his  country  seat  "  Mount  Ver- 
non." After  his  death  his  widow  removed  with  her  two  child- 
ren to  Alabama.  The  youngest  son,  Henry  Le  Vert,  then 
adopted  the  profession  of  his  father,  graduated  at  Philadelphia, 
and  established  himself  in  Mobile,  where  he  has  since  resided,  a 
leading  physician  of  the  State.  Many  a  noble  act  of  his,  per- 
formed secretly  in  the  lowliest  walks  of  his  profession,  has  been 
recorded,  and  will  yet  appear.  In  these  generous  ministrations 
he  has  ever  found  a  willing  coadjutor  in  Madame  Le  Vert. 
The  "Belle  of  the  Union"  could  preside  with  equal  grace  and 
effectiveness  in  the  crowded  drawing-rooms  of  fashion,  and  by 
the  bedside  of  the  suffering  poor.  Most  of  all  was  she  happy  in 
her  home  and  children.     But  clouds  were  o-atherino-. 

Her  first  sorrow  came  in  1849,  with  the  death  of  her  only 
brother,  a  man  of  rare  personal  and  intellectual  graces,  to 
whom  her  very  soul  was  knitted.  Six  weeks  after,  two  sweet 
children  were  taken.  Prostrated  in  body  and  spirit  by  these 
bereavements,  she  secluded  herself  for  three  years  from  society. 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  23 

Most  opportune  and  beneficent,  then,  was  a  visit  from  the 
Lady  Emeline  Stuart  Wortley,  among  whose  writings  may  be 
found  a  glowing  tribute  to  our  author,  and  to  the  memory  of 
the  departed. 

In  the  summer  of  1853,  yielding  to  the  solicitations  of 
friends,  she  accepted  an  invitation  from  the  Duke  of  Rutland, 
and  in  company  with  her  father  and  daughter,  sailed  for  Eng- 
land. It  is  not  necessary  to  follow  her  there.  All  are  familiar 
with  the  details  of  her  reception  in  London  and  tour  through 
Europe.  As  one  has  said,*  "  There  probably  was  never  a  more 
signal  success  in  the  way  of  access  to  foreign  society,  friendly 
attentions  from  the  nobility  and  notice  from  royalty,  than  fell  to 
the  share  of  Madame  Le  Vert."  She  undoubtedly  owed  to  the 
Lady  Emeline  "Wortley  the  cmpressement  of  her  first  reception, 
but  to  her  own  magnetic  personality  is  due  the  rest.  It  is  our 
pride  that  prestige  of  presence,  and  not  of  title,  was  her  key  to 
the  most  imposing  court  of  Europe  ;  while  we  dwell  with  some- 
thing better  than  pride  upon  traces  of  her  influence,  glowing 
not  in  printed  columns,  but  written  ever  in  the  grateful  hearts  of 
a  foreign  peasantry. 

In  1854,  she  returned  to  America ;  but  after  spending  one 
year  in  the  quiet  of  her  own  home  was  persuaded  to  revisit 
Europe  in  company  with  her  husband  and  daughter.  Out  of 
these  tours  grew  the  "  Souvenirs  of  Travel,"  to  which  we  are 
indebted  for  such  impressions  of  European  life  as  could  have 
come  to  us  through  no  other  medium.  Made  up  of  familiar 
letters  to  her  mother,  the  book  has  all  the  freshness  and  vivacity 
of  the  author's  own  effluent  presence.  It  is  like  nothing  we 
ever  read,  unless  we  except  a  description  (which  it  contains)  of 
the  play  of  the  "  Fountains  at  Versailles."  Over  and  around 
all,  like  an  atmosphere,  floats  the  couleur  de  rose,  which  belongs 

*  N.  P.  Willis. 


24  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

not  to  the  belle  of  many  seasons,  not  to  the  cool  and  cautious 
world-woman,  but  to  the  simple-hearted  and  impressionable 
child.  We  feel  as  if  some  good  fairy  had  spirited  us  away  over 
the  sea,  and  was  leading  us  by  the  hand  through  fairyland. 
All  irregularities,  clouds,  and  waste  places — all  sad  and  fearful 
things,  are  softened  and  tinted  till  they  become  simply  pictur- 
esque ;  while  all  culture  and  beauty,  all  graces  and  courtesies, 
are  so  glorified  in  amber  and  rose,  we  say,  "  Surely  the  face  of 
the  old  world  is  more  bonnie  than  the  face  of  the  new  I"  But 
we  have  been  looking  through  the  eyes  of  our  fairy — a  medium 
which  accepts  no  shadows.  In  this  book  Madame  Le  Yert  has 
sent  forth  a  true  type  of  herself ;  the  upturned  disc  of  her  soul 
meets  always  the  broad  disc  of  the  sun. 

To  us  there  is  something  very  beautiful  in  the  enthusiasm 
which  has  outlived  adulation  and  every  other  corrosive  influ- 
ence, and  can  walk  abroad  each  day  under  its  own  rainbows. 
Pens  dipped  in  a  fountain  of  perennial  youth  are  the  exception 
among  us ;  while  there  is  no  lack  of  homilies,  croakings,  curt- 
ness,  causticity,  and  phleghm.  It  is  refreshing  to  come  upon  a 
writer  who  knows  not,  and  so  fears  not,  the  hard,  cynical  side 
of  life. 

Our  author  does  not  use  the  skill  which  she  really  possesses  in 
delineating  character.  It  does  not  consist  with  her  abounding 
charity  to  be  nicely  critical ;  she  gleans  from  the  surface  what- 
ever seems  fair,  and  leaves  the  rest  for  those  who  have  a  taste 
for  uncomfortable  discoveries ;  so  her  portraits  sometimes  lack 
the  strong  lines  and  salient  points  of  the  analyst.  But  there 
are  channels,  aside  from  the  deep  and  winding  one  of  human 
nature,  where  her  descriptive  power  courses  with  strength  and 
impressiveness.  "The  way  over  the  Simplon,"  "The  Ascent 
and  Eruption  of  Vesuvius,"  "  Moonlight  in  Yenice,"  and  "  The 
Golden  and  Silver  Illuminations,"  and  other  ceremonies  of  holy 
week,  are  a  few  among  many  scenes  described  in  a  graphic  and 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  25 

felicitous  manner.  "  We  should  as  soon  think,"  says,  most  hap- 
pily, a  woman  of  fine  genius  and  critical  acumen,*  "  of  sitting 
down  to  dissect  the  bird  whose  song  had  charmed  us,  as  to 
break  upon  the  wheel  of  criticism  a  book  springing  so  much 
from  the  heart-side  of  the  author."  Says  another — a  southern 
poet — whose  sketch  forms  a  part  of  this  volume,  and  whose 
noble  discriminating  review  of  the  "  Souvenirs "  circulated 
widely  in  this  country  and  Europe  :  "  She  writes  as  the  flower 
blooms,  because  it  is  bathed  in  dew,  fanned  by  the  breeze,  and 
kindled  up  by  the  sunshine,  till  it  bursts  its  inclosing  petals, 
and  lavishes  its  fragrance  and  sweet  life  upon  the  air.  She 
receives,  as  it  were  by  intuition,  the  idea  of  the  ancient  Greeks, 
that  the  whole  universe  is  a  '  Kosmos '  of  beauty  and  order,  and 
this  she  presents  to  the  reader  not  as  a  pleasant  theory,  but  a 
sublime  truth.  And  yet  at  times,  as  if  to  prove  how  truly  she 
is  woman,  a  faint  shadow  lies  upon  her  heart,  and  is  reflected 
upon  the  page — telling  that  she  has  entered  the  temple  of 
memory,  and,  passing  by  little  graves  at  the  thereshold  still 
guarded  by  love  and  sorrow,  her  spirit  treads  silently  the  hal- 
lowed chamber  of  tears." 

In  entering  the  field  of  authorship,  Madame  Le  Yert  would 
seem,  at  last,  to  have  tested  the  ore  of  every  vein  of  her  versatile 
genius.  To  watch  the  play  of  manifold  graces — to  listen  to 
the  something  new  always  unfolding  from  a  well-stored  mind,  is 
a  pleasure  which  the  crowd  appreciates,  and  this  fair  daughter 
of  the  land  was  in  danger  of  frittering  herself  away.  Now  she 
has  written  a  book ;  and  to  do  this  requires  the  solitude  which 
brings  one  face  to  face  with  one's  self — the  introversion  which 
deepens — the  reserve  which  fortifies ;  while  a  book  that  con- 
tains, in  any  sort,  the  soul  and  sinew  of  the  writer,  is  something 
plucked   from   the  hurrying  tide  ;  something  to  be  taken  ten- 

•The  author  of  ''The  Sinless  Child." 


26  WOMEX    OF    THE    SOUTH". 

derly  down  from  its  nook  in  the  old  library,  through  many 
generations.  In  this  light  especially  these  "  Souvenirs "  are 
invaluable. 

Lamartine,  it  is  said,  first  suggested  the  hook,  and  gave  it  a 
name.  It  happened  in  this  wise.  Madame  Le  Vert  had  been 
describing  to  him,  in  her  own  way,  a  recent  sojourn  in  Spain; 
as  she  paused,  he  said  earnestly,  his  poet-eye  beaming  with  the 
conviction  :  "  Madame,  you  have  one  gift  of  which  you  yourself 
are  unaware.  You  are  a  natural  improvisatrice.  Now,  because 
you  are  not  an  Italian,  you  cannot  be  an  improvisatrice,  but 
you  can  be  a  writer ;  you  can  fill  with  pleasure  the  hearts  of 
your  nation  by  describing  what  you  have  seen  to  them  as  you 
are  now  delighting  me.  When  the  excitements  of  your  tour 
are  over,  and  you  are  once  more  quietly  at  home,  will  you  not 
remember,  madame,  what  I  have  said,  and  employ  your  leisure 
in  giving  to  the  world  a  few  souvenirs  of  your  European  life?" 

That  she  did  remember,  literally  and  religiously,  is  proved 
by  the  hook  and  its  title. 

At  one  period  of  our  author's  life,  during  an  illness  which 
confined  her  to  the  house  without  prostrating  her  energies,  she 
translated  in  the  most  faithful  and  spirited  manner,  Dumas' 
"  Musketeers ;"  and  a  few  months  since,  there  appeared  in  the 
columns  of  the  "  Mobile  Register  "  a  translation  by  her  of  the 
pamphlet,  "  The  Pope  and  the  Congress."  This  is  pronounced 
by  French  scholars  the  most  admirable  rendering  which  has 
yet  appeared.  Entirely  at  home  in  the  French,  Spanish,  and 
Italian  languages,  she  cannot  fail  to  do  justice  to  them  in 
translation. 

Among  all  her  occupations,  no  one  has  labored  more  zeal- 
ously than  herself  in  the  cause  of  securing  Mount  Vernon. 
She  was  one  of  the  first  to  advocate  the  project,  and  as  Vice- 
Regent  of  the  Association  for  Alabama,  has  not  only  succeeded 
in  raising  by  personal  efforts  an  unexpected  amount,  but  has 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  27 

herself  contributed  substantially  to  the  common  fund.  It  is  a 
fitting  tribute  from  the  grandchild  of  George  Walton  to  the 
manes  of  George  Washington. 

Among  many  sketches  of  "  Madame  Le  Vert  at  home,"  we 
make  brief  extracts  from  one  or  two,  which  we  select  for  their 
distinct  features  and  comparative  freedom  from  extravagance. 
A  popular  writer,*  whose  essays  upon  art  and  humanity  evince 
much  discrimination,  and  who  says  he 


"Would  not  natter  Neptune  for  bis  trident, 
Nor  Jove  for  his  power  to  thunder," 

thus  writes  of  our  author : 

"  Her  residence  is  on  Government  street,  in  the  most  con- 
venient and  central  part  of  Mobile.  It  is  a  plain,  substantial 
mansion,  combining  taste,  elegance,  and  comfort.  She  has  an 
immense  library,  and  rare  works  ot  art.  A  genuine  republi- 
can in  her  feelings,  she  respects  and  cherishes  all  genius  and 
merit,  however  humble  its  condition  or  origin.  Whoever  has 
talent  and  moral  worth  has  a  claim  upon  her.  She  is  kind  and 
hospitable  simply  for  the  pleasure  of  doing  good,  because  it  is 
her  nature  to  be  so.  No  human  being  has  ever  been  pained 
by  an  unkind  or  ungenerous  act  of  hers.  In  conversation  she 
never  flags,  yet  never  litters  a  commonplace." 

Fredrika  Bremer  says  of  her : 

"  It  is  so  strange  that  that  little  worldly  lady,  whom  I  had 
heard  spoken  of  as  a  belle,  and  as  the  most  splendid  ornament 
of  society  wherever  she  went,  has  yet  become  almost  as  dear  to 
me  as  a  young  sister!  But  she  has  become  so  from  being  so 
very  excellent,  because  she  has  suffered  much,  and  because 
under  a  worldly  exterior  there  is  an  unusually  sound  and  pure 

*  Adam  Badeau. 


28  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

intellect,  and  a  heart  full  of  affection,  which  can  cast  aside  all 
the  vanities  of  the  world  for  the  power  of  gratifying  those 
whom  she  loves.  This  fair  daughter  of  Florida  is  surrounded 
hy  a  circle  of  relatives  who  seem  to  regard  her  as  the  apple  of 
their  eye ;  and  if  you  would  see  the  ideal  of  the  relationship 
between  a  lady  and  her  female  slave,  you  should  see  Octavia 
Le  Vert  and  her  clever,  handsome,  mulatto  attendant,  Betsey. 
Betsey  seems  really  not  to  live  for  anything  else  than  for  her 
mistress,  Octavia." 

A  good  Catholic  editor  flows  out  in  the  following  tribute  to 
her  conversational  powers : 

"  I  defy  anybody  to  spend  an  hour  in  her  company  without 
rising  up  a  wiser  and  better  man,  having  a  sense  of  musical 
joyance  in  his  heart,  because  of  her  words,  which 

"  '  Did  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A  hundred  airy  harps.'  " 

In  enumerating  the  ruling  characteristics  of  Madame  Le 
Vert,  we  must  not  forget  one  which  stands  out  perhaps  more 
prominently  than  any  other — her  devotion  to  her  mother.  We 
do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  the  filial  relation  more  fully 
realized.  The  mother  is  worthy  of  the  daughter;  a  thorough 
gentlewoman  of  large  heart,  and  brilliant,  versatile  gifts ; 
indeed,  we  have  heard  it  said  that  when  the  two  have  appeared 
together  in  society,  the  former  lias  sometimes  been  obliged  to 
"  look  to  her  laurels."  It  is  frequently  the  case,  that  mother, 
daughter  and  grand-daughter  attend  the  same  party,  dance  in 
the  same  quadrille,  and  attract  their  own  separate  corner- 
coteries. 

Prevented,  by  a  painful  accident,  from  prosecuting  the  wort, 
"Souvenirs  of  Distinguished  People,"  long  since  announced  by 
her  publishers — Madame    Le  Vert  has   spent  the   last   year 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  29 

quietly  at  home  in  a  state  of  patient  receptivity.  As  soon  as 
she  is  sufficiently  recovered  to  endure  the  fatigue  of  travelling 
her  faithful  physician,  Dr.  Le  Vert — prescribes  a  tour  to  the 
Holy  Land.  This  most  interesting  journey  accomplished,  we 
shall  look  confidently,  not  only  for  another  book  of  travels,  but 
for  the  postponed  work,  whose  material  is  all  ready  to  her 
hand  in  the  affluent  pages  of  her  diary. 

AN    ADDRESS 

UPON    LAYING    THE    CORNER    STONE   OP    THE    MONUMENT    TO    HENRY    CLAY, 

(Written  at  the  request  of  the  Clay  Monumental  Association.) 

While  the  patriotic  sons  of  our  country  are  uniting  in  a  testimonial  to  the 
memory  of  Henry  Clay,  shall  not  woman  be  allowed  to  place  the  flowers  of 
gratitude  and  affection  upon  the  altar  of  his  fame? 

To  none  were  the  genius  and  services  of  the  illustrious  statesman  and 
orator  more  dear  than  to  his  countrywomen  :  with  all  those  lofty  and  com- 
manding qualities  which  sway  senates,  and  guide  the  course  of  empires,  he 
had  a  heroism  of  heart,  a  chivalry  of  deportment,  a  deference  of  demeanor, 
which  while  forming  the  soul  and  secret  of  his  impassioned  eloquence,  were 
irresistible  talismans  over  the  minds  of  the  gentler  sex. 

Great  as  he  was  in  the  "forum  of  nations,"  or  before  multitudes  of  men, 
controlling  them  by  his  "  gleaming  finger,"  as  with  the  wand  of  an  enchanter, 
it  was  in  the  home  circle,  by  the  domestic  fireside,  that  his  character  was 
seen  in  its  true  grace  and  loveliness  ;  there  his  voice,  that  lately  rang  like  a 
trumpet  amid  his  assembled  peers,  and  whose  undying  echoes  (the  richest 
symphonies  of  patriotism)  are  still  reverberating  from  the  white  hills  of  New 
England  to  the  parapets  of  the  Pacific,  was  attuned  to  all  the  softest  cadences 
of  social  and  intellectual  intercourse.  How  delightful  it  was  then  to  listen 
to  the  playful  repartee,  the  genial  anecdotes,  the  sparkling  honmots,  the  vivid 
reminiscences  of  European  and  American  society,  and  the  always  elevated 
sentiments  of  one  who  had  mingled  in  the  most  prominent  scenes  of  his  time 
in  both  hemispheres,  without  losing  in  the  least  the  lofty  manliness,  sincerity, 
and  purity  of  his  nature. 

Rousseau  once  said  '"there  are  no  compliments  like  a  king's;"  but  .how 
much  more  fascinating  and  even  royal  than  all  the  persiflage  of  a  Bourbon  or 
a  Hapsborg  were  the  graceful  praises  and  felicitous  commendations  of  such  a 


30  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

man  as  Mr.  Clay,  an  unquestioned  king  of  mind  by  the  true  right  divine, 
when,  with  eyes  beaming  like  gems,  his  high  white  brow, 

"  That  dome  of  thought,  that  palace  of  the  soul," 

radiant  with  benignity,  and  encircled  by  his  silvery  locks  as  by  a  crown,  his 
aged  lips  wreathed  by  the  gentlest  of  smiles,  he  stood  before  you  in  tall, 
-tat.lv  majesty.  At  such  times  he  seemed  to  blend  the  graces  of  Sheridan 
with  the  dignity  of  Washington.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  his  country- 
women will  long  thus  recall  him  to  mind. 

But  not  alone  in  this,  his  more  private  character,  does  woman  appreciate 
the  excellence  of  Mr.  Clay.  His  public  life,  in  many  of  its  aspects,  had  all 
the  romance  of  chivalry.  He  stood  among  the  orators  and  statesmen  of  his 
time  as  Philip  Sidney  amid  bis  contemporary  knights  and  barons.  History 
has  already  placed  his  statue  in  the  pantheon  of  immortality  ! 

Our  country's  records,  from  the  purchase  of  Louisiana  (this  lovely  land 
of  the  sugar-cane  and  magnolia)  to  the  great  pacification  of  1850,  are  vitalized 
by  his  glowing  words.  The  mighty  Mississippi,  upon  whose  margin  we  now 
stand,  bears  in  all  its  waters  a  full  remembrance  of  his  early  efforts  to  give 
freedom  to  its  commerce  and  to  braid  its  million  streams  into  a  mighty  band 
of  union  and  prosperity  for  our  glorious  country. 

The  fame  of  Ilenry  Clay  can  never  die.  As  our  most  gifted  southern 
poet  has  said : 

"  Long  mid  our  gallant  great  and  good 
Like  Washington  he  nobly  stood  ; 
While  trembling  on  his  burning  tongue, 
Truth,  justice,  peace,  and  freedom  hung. 

"  Thrice  when  our  storm-tossed  ship  of  State 
Seemed  sinking  with  its  priceless  freight, 
His  guardian  spirit,  firm  and  free, 
Walked  o'er  our  troubled  Galilee. 

"  Through  all  the  world  his  glorious  name 
Is  whispered  by  the  lips  of  fame ; 
For  long  in  every  kindling  zone, 
His  voice  was  freedom's  bugle  tone ! 

"  The  Greek  girl  kneeling  by  her  seas, 
Deemed  him  a  new  Demosthenes  ; 
And  young  Bolivar's  patriot  ray 
Was  light-like  caught  from  Ilenry  Clay." 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  31. 

How  appropriate  then  is  it  that  a  memorial  of  this  model  statesman, 
patriot  ami  orator,  should  be  erected  here  in  the  crescent  bend  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi. 

Not  far  off  rises  the  sculptured  image  of  his  great  rival  compatriot :  the 
one  was  the  sword  and  shield,  the  other  the  mind  and  the  tongue  of  the 
country.     Side  by  side  they  stand  in  the  temple  of  fame. 

Glorious  in  their  lives,  let  the  noblest  of  the  fine  arts  here  place  their 
sculptured  forms  together,  that  future  generations  may  gaze  in  love,  gratitude 
and  veneration  upon  them,  and  be  nobly  stimulated  in  the  paths  of  patriotism, 
while  they  feel  the  refining  influence  which  the  beautiful  in  art  always  exerts 
upon  its  votaries. 

The  statue  of  Themistocles  long  greeted  from  a  promontory  in  Greece  the 
home-returning  voyager,  and  fired  afresh  his  love  for  Attica  and  Athens.  So 
may  the  statue  of  our  patriotic  orator  ever  inspire  with  emulating  fervor  the 
citizens  of  this  land  of  liberty,  and  especially  of  this  prosperous  city  of  New 
Orleans. 

April  12,  1SS6. 


ADDRESS  TO   THE   CONTINENTALS   OF  MOBILE. 

Officers  and  Soldiers  of  the  Continentals  of  Mobile  : 

A  most  pleasing  duty  has  been  confided  to  me.  A  number  of  the  patriotic 
ladies  of  our  city  have  prepared  with  their  own  hands  this  beautiful  banner, 
and  requested  me  to  present  it  to  you.  Such  a  service,  though  embarrassing, 
would,  under  any  circumstances,  be  most  grateful,  as  conveying  a  fitting 
tribute  from  loveliness  to  chivalry,  but  especially  is  it  so  upon  this  occasion. 
Your  glittering  and  picturesque  costume — that  historic  uniform — bespeaks 
the  character  of  your  organization. 

How  the  heart  thrills  and  the  eyes  brighten  at  the  spectacle  !  What  glo- 
rious memories  of  ancestral  deeds,  of  brave  devotion,  heroic  sacrifices,  trials, 
and  triumphs  sweep  over  the  mind  as  we  look  upon  that  beloved  garb  which 
once,  worn  by  Washington  and  Greene,  by  Sumpter  and  Mcintosh,  pressed 
on  through  all  the  smoke  and  blood,  the  famine  and  battles  of  the  Revolution, 
to  the  fair  land  of  promise — the  rich  inheritance  of  Republican  Freedom  we 
enjoy  to-day. 

And  this  day,  too,  on  which  you  have  arrayed  yourselves  in  that  sacred 
dress.  i-<  the  anniversary  of  the  first  blow  fir  independence,  the  ever  memor- 
able battle  of  Lexington!      Well  have  you,  at  such  a  time,  with  earnest  grati- 


32  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

i 

tude  and  a  noble  determination  to  keep  alive  the  lofty  sentiments  and 
generous  courage  of  our  fathers,  adopted  their  Continental  uniform  as  the 
badge  and  habiliments  of  your  soldiery  ranks. 

My  own  heart  bounds  with  joy  and  glowing  sympathy  as  I  look  upon  you ; 
for  he,  my  honored  grandfather,  whose  name  I  proudly  still  retain,  and  whose 
services  and  character  are  my  richest  legacy,  wore  that  dress  when  he  placed 
his  hand  on  the  great  chart  of  American  Independence. 

Hail,  then,  patriot  soldiers !  Hail,  gallant  Continentals  of  Mobile  !  To 
your  keeping  I  shall,  as  the  medium  of  the  fair  and  lovely  donors,  confide 
this  beauty-woven  standard.  It  is  the  banner  of  our  country  !  More  glorious 
far  than  the  imperial  cross  of  Constantine  !  Bear  it  in  peace,  as  the  ensign 
of  patriotism,  the  type  and  bond  of  our  nationality.  And  should  war — a 
foreign  war — ever  crimson  those  garments  with  American  blood,  or  shroud 
these  stars  in  the  smoke  of  bursting  artillery,  while  you  remember  that  the 
recollections  of  the  past,  the  hopes  and  affections  of  the  present,  are  all  clus- 
tering around  your  ranks,  still  bear  bravely  this  flag,  as  its  counterpart  was 
borne  at  Lexington  and  Trenton,  at  Eutaw  and  Yorktown,  ever  in  the  front  of 
the  fight,  the  beacon-light  of  valor,  victory,  and  deathless  renown. 

Continentals  of  Mobile,  with  pride  and  confidence,  I  place  this  banner  in 
your  hands. 

April  20th,  1857. 

AN  EVENING  WITH   LAMARTINE. 

Then  came  an  invitation  to  spend  a  social  evening  with  him  and  his  lady. 
There  were  only  a  few  literary  friends  present  in  addition,  and  I  passed  some 
of  the  most  enchanting  hours  I  have  known  for  many  years  with  the  historian, 
his  lady,  and  their  friends.  Lamartine  looks  very  much  like  Portz,  but  is 
entirely  free  from  any  French  manners.  He  is  tall  and  thin ;  has  white  hair, 
and  an  expression  of  face  indicative  of  constant  and  intense  reflection.  There 
is  a  dreamy,  poetical  look  about  the  eyes;  and  he  speaks  slowly  and  with 
marked  emphasis.  His  manner  is  self-possessed,  but  full  of  warm  cordiality; 
and  his  words  are  genial  and  kind,  ne  is  charming  in  conversation — earnest 
and  eloquent :  with  so  much  feeling  in  his  language  as  impresses  one  con- 
stantly with  his  sincerity.  He  received  me  with  the  utmost  warmth  and 
kindness,  and  seated  me  by  his  side,  so  that  I  had  all  of  his  attentions  to 
myself.  The  thread  of  conversation  was  unravelled  by  the  usual  topics,  until 
it  flowed  freely  from  the  ball ;  and  then  it  soon  wove  itself  into  a  thousand 


(M'TAYIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  66 

pleasant  themes.  But  to  me  the  most  gratifying  of  all  his  kind  expressions 
were  some  that  touched  upon  my  native  land,  and  my  own  descent. 

Some  one  was  speaking  of  the  adoration  paid  to  relics  in  Rome,  when 
Lamartine  observed — ''all  nations  have  some  ohject  they  reverence,  which, 
though  perhaps  insignificant  in  itself,  is  sacred  from  associations.  Your 
country,  madame,  has  the  most  precious  of  all  manuscripts  in  the  world — 
the  signed  Declaration  of  Independence  !  Do  not  your  people  make  pilgrim- 
ages to  look  upon  it  ?"  I  told  him  that  it  was  indeed  precious  to  all,  hut 
doubly  so  to  me,  as  my  grandfather's  was  among  those  sacred  signatures! 
Oh !  you  should  have  seen  the  magic  of  those  few  words.  Lamartine  rose 
and  bowed  to  me  profoundly.  "Madame,"  said  he,  "  in  that  name  you  have 
a  noble  heritage  !  It  is  the  patent  of  true  nobility — ever  cherish  your  descent 
from  such  a  patriot  with  honest  pride." 

Oh,  how  my  heart  swelled  with  pleasure  as  I  answered  him ;  nor  could 
the  concentrated  compliments  of  all  the  titled,  the  wealthy,  and  the  witty  in 
France  have  filled  my  soul  with  half  the  proud  joy  with  which  I  now  so 
faintly  describe  to  you  this  evening  with  Lamartine. 

He  expresses  his  intention  to  visit  the  United  States  in  the  course  of  a 
year  or  two. 

FAREWELL  TO  VENICE. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock.  Still  we  lingered  on  the  balcony,  thinking,  in 
truth.  '•  it  was  wronging  such  a  night  to  sleep."  At  length  we  called  Antonio, 
our  family  gondolier,  and  told  him  to  bring  out  the  gondola  from  its  haven, 
where  it  lay  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  ducal  palace.  In  a  few  moments  it 
glided  to  the  steps ;  the  black  cabin  was  removed,  so  there  was  no  covering 
between  us  and  the  sky.  We  were  soon  floating  along  the  broad  laguna, 
leaning  back  upon  the  soft  cushions,  and  luxuriating  in  the  matchless  beaut  \  of 
the  scene.  Three  wonderful  pictures  have  I  beheld  in  Italy,  which  \\  ill  hang 
forever  on  the  "  walls  of  memory."  One  was  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's  ; 
aiiotla  r  the  Niagara-like  cataract  of  fire  pouring  from  the  crater  of  Yestirivs; 
and  the  third  is  moonlight  in  Venice.  There  is  a  glory  about  the  moonlighl 
here  never  attending  it  elsewhere ;  the  smooth  sheets  of  water  receive  its 
beams  as  though  they  were  immense  mirrors,  and  thence  reflecting  them 
upward,  fill  the  atmosphere  with  a  light  of  such  dazzling  brightness,  we  con- 
stantly exclaimed,  "this  cannot  be  night!"  It  seemed  a  mingling  of  the  soft 
tints  of  the  early  morning  and  the  tender   radiance  of  the  twilight.     The  air 

3 


34  WOMEX    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

was  warm  and  delicious,  imparting  a  gentle  languor  to  the  senses,  and  lulling 
all  troublous  thoughts  and  cares  to  perfect  oblivion.  It  was  like  a  beautiful 
dream,  where  we  seemed  borne  up  by  invisible  wings  and  wafted  from  joy 
to  joy. 

Along  the  piazza  of  .San  Marco  were  multitudes  of  lamps,  their  rays  pierc- 
ing the  still  waters  as  though  they  were  arrows  of  light.  Every  object  was 
softened  and  rounded  by  the  moonbeams,  and  its  shadow  singularly  distinct 
in  the  water  below  it.  Thus  there  appeared  two  cities,  one  above  and  ano- 
ther below  the  Grand  Canal,  eacli  with  its  winged  lion.  From  the  open 
window  of  a  palace  came  the  sound  of  merry  dancing  music,  while  beneath 
another  was  a  gondola  with  serenaders.  "We  made  an  entire  voyage  through 
the  streets  of  Venice,  passing  under  the  "Bridge  of  Sighs,"  which  for  a 
moment  shut  out  the  moonlight  completely ;  then  we  glided  by  the  palace  of 
the  Foscari,  and  did  not  wonder  the  sad  Jacopo  was  willing  to  endure  even 
torture  that  he  might  look  upon  it  again  ;  we  lingered  for  a  while  beneath  the 
marble-cased  arch  of  the  Bialto,  and  saw  the  house  of  Shylock  and  the  home 
of  Othello — thus,  "slowly  gliding  over,"  we  passed  all  the  landmarks  of  his- 
toric and  poetic  interest. 

"  To-morrow  we  part  with  Italy,"  I  murmured,  as  we  walked  for  the  last 
time  upon  the  radiant  and  moon-lighted  city,  and  deep  regret  welled  up  from 
the  fountain  of  my  heart.  I  love  the  beautiful  country,  it  contains  so  much 
to  enrapture  the  fancy  and  delight  the  mind.  Ah  !  such  happy  days  we 
have  spent  in  its  grand  old  cities,  by  the  classic  shores  of  its  memory-haunted 
Mediterranean  and  along  its  picturesque  lakes.  One  must  be  Insensible  to  the 
glories  of  the  past  and  to  the  charms  of  the  present  not  to  love  Italy.  As  the 
home  of  the  greatest  statesmen,  the  noblest  poets,  and  bravest  heroes  of  anti- 
quity, it  is  invested  with  a  soul-thrilling  interest.  As  the  land  where  the 
early  Christians  planted  firmly  the  holy  cross,  emblem  of  our  Saviour's  love, 
it  is  truly  sacred.  Earth,  sky  and  air  possess  here  a  beauty  unknown  in 
other  climes.  Every  city  has  some  treasure  of  painting,  sculpture  or  science. 
Each  river,  vale,  and  mountain  has  its  poetic  or  historic  legend.  In  the 
forms  of  its  poorest  inhabitants  we  often  see.  the  loveliness  and  manly  grace 
which  gave  to  Phidias  and  to  Praxiteles  the  models  of  the  peerless  statues  of 
the  Venus  de  Medici  and  the  Apollo  Belvidere.  A  mournful  feeling  of  com- 
passion  for  her  present  wrongs  must  endear  Italy  to  the  American  heart,  since 
from  the  skeleton  form  of  her  once  glorious  republic  we  have  seized  the 
outline  of  the  noble  fabric  of  our  own  free  and  independent  govern- 
ment. 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  35 

Tn  all  our  wanderings  through  this  lovely  laud,  we  have  never  encountered 
one  disagreeable  incident,  or  met  with  look  or  word  of  rudeness  or  unkind- 
ness.  The  people  have  everywhere  been  cordial  and  thoughtful  of  our  happi- 
ness and  pleasure.  There  may  have  been  times  when  we  were  uncomfort- 
able and  wearied — when  we  were  vastly  troubled  by  beggars  and  annoyed  by 
i  ivercharging  innkeepers  ;  but  these  were  trifles,  like  motes  seen  for  a  moment 
in  the  sunlight,  then  vanishing  away.  Hillard,  whose  admirable  book  on 
Italy  I  have  read  since  my  return  to  America,  says  most  truly:  "It  is  only 
the  hours  of  sunshine  that  are  marked  upon  the  dial  of  memory."  Thus  shall 
1  ever  cherish  the  pleasures  we  have  experienced  here  and  the  remembrance 
of  the  dear  friends  who  have  gladdened  our  sojourn  in  beautiful  Italy. 


THE  WAY  OVER  THE   SIHPLOK 

Now  we  perceived  the  Herculean  labor  of  making  the  road.  There  were 
miles  of  solid  masonry  and  hundreds  of  feet  of  galleries  formed  partly  of  the 
living  rock  and  partly  ot  huge  pillars  of  stone  and  mortar.  The  turnings  and 
windings  of  the  way  were  really  incredible.  One  valley  we  passed  entirely 
around  three  times  upon  ledges  or  terraces,  built  one  above  the  other,  as 
though  they  belonged  to  some  giant  hanging  garden.  When  we  gained  the 
summit  we  could  trace  far  below  us  the  narrow  track  like  a  white  seam  upon 
the  mountain-side.  Well  might  Sir  James  Mackintosh  say  of  this  road :  "  It 
is  the  greatest  of  all  those  monuments  that  dazzle  the  imagination  by  their 
splendor,  and  are  subservient  to  general  convenience." 

The  first  gallery  we  entered  was  that  ofSchalbet,  ninety-five  feet  long,  and 
emerging  from  it  we  beheld  all  the  glory  of  the  Bernese  Alps.  These  were 
the  peaks  of  the  ErietTiorn  and  Aletseh  Homer,  and  the  YiescTier  Horner, 
standing  in  bold  relief  against  the  clear  sky.  Their  summits  were  covered 
with  snow,  while  between  them  appeared  the  glaciers  of  Aletsch,  the  most 
extensive  of  the  Alps.     The  scene  was  indescribably  grand. 

The  glacier  of  the  Kaltwasser  was  just  above  us,  not  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  away.  The  color  of  the  ice  was  of  the  deepest  bine,  with  long  streaks 
of  white  through  it,  caused  by  the  melting  of  the  mass.  Several  torrents 
rushed  from  beneath  it,  and  fell  over  the  cliffs  in  sheets  of  snow-like  foam; 
our  eyes  followed  them  until  they  were  lost  in  the  dim  depths,  thousands  and 
thousands  of  feet  below.  Far  above,  where  no  human  feet  have  trod,  were 
the  wild  goats  (the  chamois  of  the  Alps),  .standing  in  perfect  security  upon 


36  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

the  topmost  peak  of  the  Simplon,  which  was  uncovered,  although  around  and 
below  it  the  "  everlasting  snows  "  lay  pure  and  deep. 

Along  this  portion  of  the  road  the  avalanches  are  frequent;  also  the  tour- 
mentes  (sudden  storms).  Hence  the  construction  of  many  galleries  as  places 
of  protection.  They  are  made  in  such  a  manner  that  the  avalanches  slide 
over  them  and  fall  into  the  valleys  below.  After  passing  through  one  of 
these  long-arched  tunnels,  termed  the  "glacier  galleries,"  with  great  aper- 
tures like  windows,  we  found  ourselves  beneath  a  waterfall,  which  came 
roaring  from  the  glaciers  above,  and  rushed  over  the  rocks,  forming  the  root 
of  our  gallery;  thus  we  beheld  the  fearful  sight,  while  we  felt  ourselves  in 
safety. 

From  gallery  to  gallery  we  drove  on  until  we  came  out  upon  the  edge  of 
the  precipice.  Then  for  the  first  time  a  sensation  of  fear  thrilled  our  hearts, 
or  rather  of  awe.  Before  u^  were  the  Bernese  Alps  in  their  lonely  grandeur. 
Far  below  into  caverns  and  chasms  of  untold  depth  fell  the  glacier  torrents, 
echoing  from  peak  to  peak  the  music  of  the  waterfall.  Far  above  all,  arose  the 
summit  of  the  Simplon  in  white  and  chilly  grandeur.  It  was  entirely  covered 
with  snow,  save  a  few  pulpit-shaped  rocks.  Around  it  was  a  crown  of  clouds, 
touched  by  the  sunbeams  and  wrought  into  fantastic  banks  of  rose-hue, 
exquisitely  beautiful  to  behold.  Neither  shrub,  tree,  nor  flower  formed  a 
portion  of  the  majestic  spectacle,  where  "Alps  rose  over  Alps,"  while  the 
brilliant  snow  of  ages,  the  eternal  glaciers,  and  the  mighty  rocks  reigned 
supreme.  Never  did  I  feel  my  soul  more  perfectly  raised  from  "  Nature  up 
to  Nature's  God!"  Who  could  be  a  skeptic  in  a  scene  like  this,  where  the 
hand  of  the  "  Great  Architect"  is  so  manifest  in  the  glories  of  his  creation  ? 
A  feeling  of  profound  gratitude  filled  my  bosom  that  my  eyes  had  dwelt 
upon  this  glorious  mountain-world,  and  that  within  my  memory  it  would 
be   a  joy  forever. 

Higher  and  higher  we  went,  until  we  perceived  near  us  the  little  cross 
marking  the  culminating  point  of  the  road,  six  thousand  five  hundred  and 
seventy-eight  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Although  the  elevation  was  so 
great,  the  atmosphere  was  pleasantly  warm,  and  the  air  so  pure  and  clear, 
objects  exceedingly  distant  seemed  incredibly  near.  We  left  the  diligence 
and  climbed  a  rocky  eminence,  where  we  drank  a  bumper  of  fleurie  to 
"those  we  love  best"  in  our  far-away  home,  turning  our  faces  westward 
toward  our  heart's  Mecca,  as  we  wafted  them  blessings  fond  and  true. 

Across  a  grey,  barren  plain,  we  drove  to  a  large  hospice,  commenced  by 
the  command  of  Napoleon,  and  since  completed.     It  is  occupied  by  friars  of 


OCTAVIA    WALTON'    LE    VERT.  61 

the  Augustine  order.  They  give  shelter  to  travellers  during  periods  of  stormy 
weather.  We  saw  there  the  dogs  of  the  great  St.  Bernard  ;  they  are  almost 
as  large  as  a  well-grown  calf,  and  are  covered  with  thick,  shaggy  hair. 
Father  Barras  came  out  to  speak  with  us.  He  is  noted  for  his  kindness  to 
strangers,  and  lias  a  most  benevolent  face. 

Along  the  Simplon  road  there  are  six  houses  of  refuge  for  "the  traveller 
worn  and  weary."  They  are  most  valuable  asylums,  for  the  tempests  often 
arise  so  suddenly,  it  would  be  impossible  to  escape  certain  destruction  were 
not  these  places  of  protection  wisely  placed  within  the  reach  of  the  wayfarer. 
Then  the  avalanches  occur  when  the  "  heavens  are  brightest."  "We  heard 
the  crushing  sound  of  one,  but  it  was  happily  far  away  from  us  in  a  distant 
valley.  The  houses  of  refuge  are  built  with  massive  walls  and  furnished  with 
an  abundance  of  fire-wood.  Some  few  are  occupied  by  miserable-looking 
peasants,  who  will  wait  upon  a  stranger  for  a  good  compensation.  Others 
are  left  open,  and  all  enter  who  wish,  free  and  without  charge. 

Often  have  I  spoken  of  the  delight  we  have  experienced  in  meeting 
friends  and  acquaintances  in  all  our  wanderings.  But  we  did  not  imagine, 
amid  the  glaciers  and  the  eternal  snows,  almost  in  the  skies  (for  some 
clouds  were  below  us),  that  we  should  still  find  one.  During  all  the  day  we 
had  remarked  a  handsome  man,  with  a  noble,  distinguished  air,  walking 
at  times  along  the  mountain-road.  Upon  inquiry  we  discovered  he  was  the 
owner  of  the  carriage  following  our  diligence.  When  we  stopped  at  the 
hospice  he  came  up  to  us,  and  presented  us  with  a  bouquet  of  Alpine  flowers 
which  he  had  gathered  during  the  morning.  There  was  a  certain  grace 
and  gallant  manner  which  at  once  induced  me  to  believe  he  was  an  Ameri- 
can ;  therefore,  to  he  assured  of  my  suspicion,  I  made  some  remark  concern- 
ing "our  country,"  and  found  we  had  known  each  other  well  in  "days 
long  past;"  and  thus  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  I  met  a  friend.  It 
was  truly  a  bright  and  sparkling  incident  in  "the  pass  of  the  Simplon."  Mr. 
Ogden  was  with  a  party  of  intelligent  gentlemen  from  the  United  States,  who 
were  journeying  our  way,  and  we  travelled  together  several  days. 

At  Siinp Ion  (Semplone  in  Italian)  we  dined,  and  then  proceeded  on  to 
thg  Gallery  of  Algal  y,  the  first  on  the  Italian  side  of  the  mountain.  It  is 
along  the  Doveria,  near  where  it  rushes  into  the  Gorge  of  Gondo.  Words 
cannot  even  give  a  shadow  of  the  wild  and  savage  grandeur  of  this  Alpine 
gorge.  Goethe,  in  bis  "Faust,"  lias  pictured  just  such  scenes  of  mysterious 
gloom.  The  mountains  appeared  to  have  been  rent  asunder  by  some  fierce 
convulsion  of  nature,  leaving    a   passway  for  the  Doveria,    which  rushes 


38  WOMEN'    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

through,  sometimes  a  roaring  river,  then  falling,  a  grand  cataract,  into  the 
dark  chasm  below.  The  road  is  upon  a  terrace  of  solid  masonry,  or  else  upon 
a  ledge  cut  in  the  rock,  directly  along  the  verge  of  the  torrent.  Far  above, 
on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  was  a  fringe  of  fir-trees;  all  below  them,  was  the  bar- 
ren grey  rock,  in  places  perfectly  white,  from  the  sheets  of  snowy  foam, 
caused  by  the  myriads  of  waterfalls  which  came  dashing  down  their  sides,  ami 
were  lost  in  mists  ere  they  reached  the  Doveria. 

We  crossed  the  rushing  river  upon  the  Poittc  Alto,  and  came  to  a  pro- 
jection of  the  mountain  it  seemed  utterly  impossible  to  pass.  Hut  the  skillful 
engineers  had  accomplished  wonders;  instead  of  going  round  it,  we  suddenly 
dived  into  the  Gallery  of  Gondo,  six  hundred  feet  long.  It  appeared  inter- 
minable, although  there  were  great  windows  to  give  light.  At  last  the  guard 
called  out  we  were  nearly  through.  Infinite  was  our  amazement  and  terror 
when  the  diligence  emerged  from  the  gallery,  and  passed  under  the  great 
waterfall  of  the  Frascinnone.  Our  hearts  almost  ceased  to  beat,  as  the  foam 
of  the  roaring,  wildly-rushing  torrent  dashed  into  our  faces,  and  a  sound  like 
that  of  the  crashing  avalanche  assailed  our  ears.  I  suppose  that  we  screamed  ; 
but  the  human  voice  was  unheard  in  the  fierce  tumult  of  waters.  "We  were 
only  two  minutes  beneath  the  cataract,  they  told  us;  but  fear  so  painfully 
magnified  the  time,  it  really  seemed  an  hour.  The  cascade  descending  from 
the  highest  point  of  the  rocky  battlement  above,  leaves  a  space  between  the 
stream  and  the  cliff,  along  which  the  workmen  have  cut  a  kind  of  huge  shelf 
where  the  road  passes.  Although  apparently  so  dangerous,  we  were  assured 
it  was  entirely  safe.  When  beyond  the  reach  of  the  spray,  we  insisted  upon 
stopping,  that  we  might  look  upon  the  Frascinnone  waterfall.  It  was  a 
scene  of  matchless  grandeur !  The  immense  mountains  rose  up  as  high  as 
the  Hawk's  Nest  of  the  Kanawha  River.  A  little  strip  of  sky  appeared  to 
roof  over  the  great  abyss,  where  the  Doveria  torrents  and  ourselves  were 
sole  occupants. 

ERUPTION   OF   VESUVIUS. 

The  night  was  calm — not  a  wavelet  disturbed  the  mirror-like  surface  of 
the  bay.  The  moon,  high  in  the  heavens,  was  casting  a  long  train  of  radi- 
ance over  its  waters.  Parallel  with  the  moonbeams  fell  the  crimson  light 
from  the  volcano,  while  between  them  lay  a  space  of  deep,  deep  blue,  like  a 
pavement  of  sapphire.  How  strangely  beautiful  was  the.  scene!  Palaces 
and  domes,  spires  and  churches,  ships  and  little  boats,  were  all  touched  with 


OOTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  39 

silvery  light,  or  glowing  in  the  crimson  rays  of  the  "fiery  mountain."  Along 
the  molo  were  clustered  hundreds  of  Neapolitan  fishermen,  urging  the 
passers-by  to  embark  with  them  for  a  row  across  to  the  base  of  Vesuvius, 
their  dark,  gipsy-like  faces  singularly  wild  by  the  gleams  of  the  red  light. 

lint  the  mountain !  It  was  perfectly  wonderful !  blazing  and  flaming  like 
— but  to  what  shall  I  compare  it?  In  truth,  it  was  like  Shakspeare's  Richard, 
"  itself  alone."  Down  the  side  poured  a  cataract  of  lava,  while  from  the  crater 
sprang  up  at  times  great  blood-red  stones,  which  seemed  poised  in  air  for  a 
few  seconds,  then  fell  crashing  down  below.  Although  we  were  eight  or  ten 
miles  distant,  we  heard  the  "voice  of  the  mountain"  above  all  other  sounds 
of  earth  or  air.  Clouds  of  smoke  hung  in  festoons  around  the  highest  peak 
of  Vesuvius;  and  though  there  was  no  wind,  they  were  constantly  changing 
into  most  fantastic  forms,  now  presenting  the  appearance  of  a  lion,  then  an 
eagle  with  a  scroll  ot  fire  in  his  talons,  or  a  procession  of  monks  with  black 
cowls,  or  palaces,  or  castles,  all  tinged  with  a  crimson  hue. 
#  .  *  *.  *  *  * 

At  five  we  left  Naples  in  an  open  barouche,  drawn  by  three  strong  horses, 
and  drove  rapidly  through  Portici.  and  up  the  mountain  to  the  Hermitage, 
passing  through  the  vineyards  from  whose  grapes  the  Lachrymal  Christi  wine 
is  made.  The  road  was  thronged  with  carriages,  horsemen,  donkeys,  and 
pedestrians  by  thousands.  It  was  an  excmisite  evening,  and  the  very  heavens 
seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  universal  happiness;  for  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius  is 
a  benefaction  to  the  Neapolitans.  Smiling  joy  was  pictured  on  every  face. 
The  beggars  even  ceased  to  rap  their  chins  and  to  cry  "morte  di  fame." 
Tho  lame  hobbled  along  merrily,  and  the  blind  stretched  out  their  hands,  as 
though  to  feel  the  happiness  they  could  not  see.  There  were  crowds  of  hand- 
si  niie  peasant-women,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  ruddy  cheeks,  hastening  up. 
Even  the  poor  little  infants  many  carried,  were  laughing  in  spite  of  being 
wrapped  up  like  Egyptian  mummies,  and  tucked  under  their  mothers'  arms 
as  though  they  were  great  loaves  of  bread. 

At  the  Hermitage,  midway  to  the  summit,  there  was  a  scene  preciselj 
like  a  race-field  in  America.  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  carriages  were  all 
crammed  together,  while  the  drivers  were  swearing  and  gesticulating  furi- 
ously. Wc  gladly  left  our  barouche,  and  hastened  down  a  pathway  through 
a  grove  of  young  chestnut-trees,  which  brought  us,  after  a  brisk  walk,  to  the 
verge  of  the  lava  flood.  It  ponred  from  the  crater  far  above,  anil  formed  a 
si  ream  many  miles  in  length.  It  was  a  deep  burning  red,  with  here  and  there 
a  little  island  of  black,  caused  bv  the  cooling  of  tin-  surface  of  the  fiery  river. 


40  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

From  this  ravine  we  climbed  up  the  heights  above,  and  approached  nearer 
the  crater.  There  we  encountered  our  guide  Beppo,  who  made  the  ascent 
with  us.  The  instant  he  perceived  us,  lie  cried  out,  "Bene!  bene!  Signora! 
You  remember  three  days  ago,  when  I  allowed  you  to  stop  on  the  side  of  the 
cone,  and  you  asked  me  about  the  little  serpent  of  smoke  that  burst  from  the 
lava,  when  the  great  mountain  thundered, — bene!  that  was  the  mouth  of  the 
crater,  and  the  lire  was  trying  to  open  it.  You  see  what  it  has  done  now. 
Orazie  a  Dio!  we  shall  eat  macaroni  to-night!" 

Precisely  true  were  the  words  of  Beppo.  Just  where  T  had  gathered  up 
pieces  of  hot  lava,  and  heard  far,  far  down  below  a  wild,  fierce  murmur, 
almost  like  the  utterance  of  human  agony,  a  new  crater  had  opened  its  flam- 
ing mouth,  whence  came  a  torrent  of  lava,  sixty  or  seventy  feet  in  width, 
flowing  down  the  very  path  by  which  we  had  ascended.  It  did  not  dash 
rapidly  along,  as  does  the  water,  hut  moved  slowly  and  majestically.  It  was 
only  when  a  rocky  barrier  stayed  its  progress,  that  it  would  swell  up  into 
grand  waves  of  fire,  and  madly  dash  over  it.  Imagine  Trenton  Falls,  with 
every  drop  of  water  turned  to  flame,  pouring  over  ledge  after  ledge  of  rocks ; 
or  the  Anio  a  river  of  fire,  rushing  wildly  over  the  heights  of  Tivoli,  and 
some  faint  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  lava-cataract  of  Vesuvius. 


SILVEPv  AND   GOLDEN   ILLUMINATIONS. 

At  sunset  we  drove  in  an  open  barouche  to  St.  Peter's,  and  stopped  just 
within  the  colonnades.  An  immense  concourse  of  people,  almost  equal  to 
the  throng  of  the  morning,  was  assembled  in  the  Piazza.  The  carriages 
were  drawn  up  in  lines  precisely  as  upon  our  race-courses  in  America.  The 
mounted  police,  with  drawn  sabres,  kept  order  over  the  movements  of  the 
crowd.  A  hoarse  murmur,  like  the  sound  of  a  distant  cataract,  rose  up  from 
the  dense  mass  of  human  beings.  As  twilight  melted  into  darkness,  along 
the  front  of  the  church  sprang  up  innumerable  gleaming  lights,  until  frieze, 
column,  cornice,  and  pillar,  were  all  traced  out  in  tire.  This  was  the  "  silver  " 
illumination.  We  gazed  upon  this  for  some  time,  in  wonder  and  admiration, 
when  the  great  bell  of  St.  Peter's  tolled  the  hour  of  eight.  At  the  first 
stroke  a  meteor,  as  though  from  the  sky  above,  darted  from  the  summit  of 
the  dome,  and  fixed  itself  upon  the  top  of  the  cross ;  then  as  quick  as  thought, 
swift  as  electricity,  thousands  and  thousands  of  blazing  fires  flashed  over  the 
noble    structure,   along   the   graceful   colonnades,   around  the  statues,   and 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  41 

beneath  the  arches.  The  waters  of  the  fountains,  catching  the  vivid  radiance, 
fell  like  drops  of  liquid  gold  into  the  inarhle  hasins.  Glorious  was  the  spec- 
tacle— a  miracle  of  beauty!  It  seemed  some  vision  of  enchantment — a 
cathedral  of  flame,  whose  perfect  architecture  was  all  revealed  in  glittering 
light.  A  slight  wind  caused  the  fires  to  waver  to  and  fro,  as  though  they 
were  stars  which  had  fallen  from  their  sphere  above,  and  were  now  trem- 
bling and  fluttering  in  their  new  abode. 


BALL  OF   THE   COUNTESS   DE   WALEWSKI. 

July  20th. — A  few  nights  ago  we  attended  a  magnificent  ball  at  the  palace 
of  the  Count  and  Countess  de  Walewski,  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  near  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies.  The  Count  (now  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs)  was 
ambassador  at  the  Court  of  St.  James  for  several  years,  where  both  himself 
and  his  lovely  wife  were  exceedingly  admired.  At  Queen  Victoria's  state 
ball  in  Buckingham  Palace  (during  our  first  visit  to  England)  I  had  been 
presented  to  them,  and  was  earnestly  pleased  to  meet  them  again. 

Twelve  rooms  were  opened,  quite  as  splendid  as  those  of  the  Tuileries  or 
the  Hdtel  de  Ville.  They  were  each  hung  with  a  different-colored  damask, 
and  so  highly  gilded,  they  shone  like  the  palace  of  the  "  Gold  King."  The 
chandeliers  were  singularly  pretty,  formed  of  large  bouquets  of  flowers, 
whence  the  light  issued.  Just  beneath  a  large  one,  fashioned  like  white 
lilies,  was  an  elegant  crimson  divan,  the  centre  of  which  was  a  perfect  bank 
of  bright-hned  verbenas,  geraniums,  and  heliotropes.  Around  this  spot  the 
ladies  were  clustered,  much  more  at  home  and  as  radiant  as  the  flowers 
themselves.  As  it  was  the  reception-room,  the  graceful  Countess  stood  near 
this  group,  greeting  her  guests  as  they  entered  with  sweet  words  and  gracious 
smiles.  She  kindly  welcomed  us  to  France,  and  gave  us  a  seat  near  her, 
where  we  remarked  the  entree  (if  many  distinguished  and  elegant  people. 
All  tlie  "dignitaries  of  the  state"  were  there,  the  ministers,  and  a  number 
.if  the  English  nobility;  among  them  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Hamilton: 
then  Prince  Napoleon,  President  of  the  Exposition,  and  his  two  cousins, 
Charles  and  Lucieii  Bonaparte.  The  Turkish  Ambassador  has  a  very  inte- 
resting face,  witli  eyes  of  wonderful  size  and  brightness.  He  was  dressed  in 
the  modern  costume,  except  the  crimson  fez  upon  his  head;  and  then  he 
wore  no  cravat,  but  a  wide  black  ribbon  around  his  neck,  to  which  was 
attached  ;i   medallion  of  diamonds  of  dazzling  light.     He  was  accompanied 


42  WOMEN'    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

by  numerous  young  attaches,  uncommonly  handsome  men,  who  were  really 
the  most  caressed  beaux  of  the  ball.  Their  soft  and  beautiful  eyes  seemed 
to  possess  a  magnetic  power  over  the  hearts  of  the  fair  ones  around  them. 
There  were  two  Egyptians  of  noble  presence  (quite  as  dark-skinned  as  our 
Betsey,)  and  a  Haytien  prince,  entirely  black.  His  manner  was  grave  and 
dignified. 

A  few  officers  in  glittering  uniforms  were  present.  Several  had  recently 
returned  from  the  Crimea,  and  were  still  pale  and  weak  from  the  wounds 
received  there. 

The  ladies'  dresses  were  very  brilliant,  and  precious  jewels  sparkled 
on  their  bosoms,  and  bracelets  of  rare  value  clasped  their  arms.  But  to 
the  vast  circumference  of  the  petticoats  our  eyes  have  not  yet  become 
accustomed.  They  are  formed  of  crinoline  (a  fabric  made  of  horse-bain, 
with  a  quilling  of  it  around  the  bottom  to  keep  the  huge  circle  distended. 
They  resemble  half-inflated  balloons,  just  rising  from  the  ground,  and  the 
wearers  appear  compelled  to  push  the  skirts  along  as  they  walk.  The  courtesy, 
or  curtsy,  now  in  vogue,  is  most  extraordinary.  The  ladies  can  no  longer 
move  back  a  step  or  two,  and  incline  forward  (as  was  their  custom  formerly), 
without  knocking  over  some  small  man  by  the  weight  of  their  petticoats  ; 
therefore,  instead  of  bending  forward,  they  give  a  sudden  "duck  down," 
very  much  after  the  style  of  little  Chloe  when  old  Aunt  Charlotte  directs 
her  in  their  Sunday  visits  to  say,  ''How  do  'ee  do,  Missis!"  Yet  how 
omnipotent  is  this  fashion !  How  it  reconciles  us  to  utter  monstrosities,  and 
after  a  time  makes  us  deem  them  undoubted  beauties !  Hence  you  must  not 
wonder  to  find  us,  on  our  return,  pushing  along  our  heavy  skirts,  and  rolling 
to  and  fro  like  half-collapsed  balloons  ! 

Serving-men  in  gorgeous  liveries  were  constantly  handing  around  ices, 
although  there  was  a  sumptuous  uuffet,  where  every  variety  of  refreshment 
was  politely  served  to  the  guests. 

We  made  the  acquaintance  of  many  agreeable  people,  among  them  the 
Princess  Ghika,  daughter  of  the  reigning  prince  of  Wallachia.  She  is  mar- 
ried to  a  French  gentleman,  who  occupied  some  diplomatic  position  in  her 
country.  We  found  her  a  charming  woman,  and  accompanied  her  and  the 
Turkish  Ambassador  to  supper,  where  we  had  a  famously  merry  time.  Not 
far  from  us  was  the  Count  de  Moray,  whom  Talleyrand  prophesied  (when 
he  was  only  a  child)  would  be  a  Prime  Minister  of  France.  His  devotion 
to  the  emperor,  at  the  time  of  the  coup  d'etat  of  December,  is  known  to 
the    whole  world.     Count  de  Moray,  although  not  more  than   forty-three 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  43 

or  four,  is  quite  bald;  he  has  a  quiet,  dignified  air,  and  the  self-possession 
of  a  man  of  profound  intellect. 

After  leaving  the  supper-rooms  we  went  out  into  the  gardens,  which  were 
lighted  by  colored  lamps  hanging  from  trees  and  shrubs.  The  scene  w  as 
most  inviting,  and  the  fresh  perfume  of  the  flowers  delicious.  Music  from 
the  palace  floated  upon  the  air,  and  mingled  with  the  sound  of  the  falling 
waters  of  the  fountains,  while  lovely  forms  flitted  to  and  fro  amid  the  green 
foliaire.     How  delightful  it  was ! 


THE  COLISEUM. 

The  Coliseum  is  crumbling  fast  away;  Rome  has  fallen  from  her  early 
grandeur;  but  the  world  progresses  more  proudly  than  ever,  for  that  fair 
and  glorious  land  beyond  the  broad  Atlantic  has  been  added  to  the  treasures 
of  time— that  unrivalled  land,  the  birthplace  of  Washington  and  of  freedom, 
which  seems,  "  Pallas-like,  to  have  sprung  from  the  head  of  Jove,"  with 
all  the  knowledge  of  departed  centuries,  and  the  experience  of  long-buried 
nations. 

At  the  end  of  a  soft  and  balmy  day  of  spring,  we  first  entered  the  Coli- 
seum. Its  immensity  and  desolation  were  overpowering.  The  lips  abso- 
lutely refused  to  frame  into  words  the  emotions  inspired  by  this  grandest  of 
ruins.  So,  to  escape  questions  from  our  party  concerning  the  impression 
made  upon  my  mind,  I  stole  away  from  them,  and  climbing  up  a  mass  of 
stone,  I  found  a  little  nook,  where  I  seated  myself,  and,  free  from  interrup- 
tion, gazed  upon  the  wondrous  extent  of  the  majestic  Coliseum.  It  is  of 
oval  form,  and  when  perfect,  the  walls  were  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in 
height.  Now.  the  lofty  rim  around  it  is  broken  in  all  directions.  The  deep 
blue  sky  seemed  to  rest  like  a  roof  above  the  arches,  which  rose  up  tier  over 
tier  tn  tin:  summit,  where  once  floated  an  awning,  as  protection  from  the 
mid-day  sun.  It  is  built  of  travertine  rock,  whose  eoarse  grain  and  porous 
texture  afford  a  safe  lodgment  for  the  grains  of  dust.  These  soon  become 
soil,  whence  spring  myriads  of  flowers,  and  tufted  bushes  of  dark  green 
foliage.  Nature  appeared  to  have  seized  the  ruin  from  decay,  ami  hidden 
the  ravages  of  the  destroyer  beneath  a  mantle  of  verdure,  sprinkled  with 
glowing  blossoms,  belonging  to  a  flora  unknown  elsewhere  save  in  ancient 
Rome.  There  wen-  delicate  vines  clinging  around  enormous  prostrate 
column-,  while  long  tendrils,  like  garlands,  were  waving  in  the  air.      Alont: 


44  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

a  terrace  which  encircled  the  arena,  were  still  visible  ranges  of  boxes, 
intended  for  the  emperors  and  nobles.  This  was  covered  as  though  with  a 
carpet,  so  various  and  brilliant-hued  were  the  flowers  growing  upon  it.  Far 
up  along  the  edge  of  the  broken  battlements  was  a  fringe  of  green  and 
shining  ivy. 

The  Coliseum  was  commenced  by  Vespasian,  and  finished  by  his  son 
Titus  in  the  year  80,  a  few  years  after  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem. 
Twelve  thousand  captive  Jews  were  compelled  to  labor  incessantly  in  its 
construction,  and  when  it  was  completed,  for  one  hundred  days  gladiatorial 
combats  were  held  within  it,  and  thousands  of  Christians  were  torn  to 
pieces  by  the  wild  tigers,  lions,  and  leopards.  During  four  hundred  years 
the  Coliseum  was  devoted  to  these  fearful  games,  where  gladiators  met,  or 
where  savage  beasts  buried  their  claws  in  the  quivering  flesh  of  human 
beings.  Seas  of  blood  have  washed  over  the  broad  arena,  and  myriads  of 
martyrs  to  the  faith  of  our  holy  Redeemer,  have  yielded  up  their  souls  to 
'.oil  within  those  circling  walls.  Hence,  with  all  these  memories  crowding 
on  the  mind,  I  could  readily  picture  the  terrific  scenes  of  those  horrible  days, 
when 

"  The  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 

In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 

As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man 

And  wherefore  slaughtered  ?  wherefore,  but  because 

Such  were  the  bloody  circus'  genial  laws, 

And  the  imperial  pleasure  ?" 

In  the  reign  of  Ilonorius  these  frightful  combats  were  abolished.  The 
Coliseum  remained  perfect  for  many  centuries,  until  it  became  a  kind  of 
quarry  of  stone  and  marble,  with  which  many  great  palaces  were  built  up. 
It  i-  '-.■lid  that  the  nephew  of  Paul  the  Third  asked  permission  to  remove 
stone  for  only  twelve  hours.  Tins  being  granted  to  him  by  his  uncle,  he 
employed  four  thousand  men,  who  assailed  the  walls,  and  bore  away  suffi- 
cient  material  to  build  the  Farnese  Palace,  one  of  the  largest  in  Europe. 

Pope  Benedict,  in  1750,  caused  a  rmss  to  be  erected  in  the  centre  of  the 
arena,  and  consecrated  it  to  the  martyrs  who  had  perished  within  it.  There 
are  now  rude  altars,  with  paintings  illustrating  the  progress  of  the  Saviour 
from  the  prison  to  the  place  of  his  crucifixion.  Just  after  twilight  a  long 
train  of  monks,  with  a  linen  mask  entirely  concealing  their  faces,  went 
chanting  around  the  arena.     Great  shadows  falling  from  the  walls  above, 


OCTAVIA    WALTON    LE    VERT.  45 

seemed  now   and  then   to   ingulf   them    in   dark  caverns,  as  they  passed 
along. 

Even  more  suggestive  of  picturesque  and  wild  grandeur  was  the  Coliseum 
at  night,  when  the  hright  stars  were  out,  and  the  tender  beams  of  the  young 
moon  were  just  disappearing  beyond  the  ivy-crowned  rim  of  the  lofty  walls. 
"With  that  view  ended  our  first  visit ;  but  often  again  did  I  see  it.  If  Mont 
Blanc  may  be  styled  the  "  Monarch  of  Mountains,"  the  Coliseum  may  be 
justly  hailed  as  the  "Sovereign  of  Ruins." 


THE   HOME   OF   THE   BROWNINGS. 

I  have  spent  the  evening  at  the  Casa  Guidt,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning, 
whose  poems  we  have  read  with  such  earnest  pleasure  at  home.  We  have 
mutual  and  dear  friends  in  England,  and  soon  after  my  arrival,  we  called 
upon  them,  and  have  found  in  their  acquaintance  another  link  of  enchantment 
to  bind  Florence  to  memory  forever. 

During  all  the  years  of  her  early  life,  Elizabeth  Barrett  was  an  invalid, 
shut  in  from  society,  and  often  even  from  the  conversation  of  friends.  While 
a  close  prisoner  in  her  chamber,  she  wrote  beautiful  and  noble  poems,  which 
have  made  the  delight  of  many  a  household  beyond  the  Atlantic,  and  the 
joy  of  her  compatriots.  Robert  Browning,  himself  a  poet,  a  man  of  rare 
talent  and  great  personal  attraction,  read  these  outpourings  of  her  pure  and 
gifted  mind,  and  loved  the  unseen  authoress.  After  many  weary  months  of 
entreaty,  he  was  allowed  to  visit  her,  as  she  lay  upon  the  sofa  of  her  boudoir. 
I  need  not  tell  yon,  the  sight  of  her  sweet  and  gentle  face,  and  her  beaming, 
soul-lit  smile,  completed  the  conquest  her  genius  had  commenced.  He  mar- 
ried her,  anil  brought  her  immediately  to  Italy,  where  they  have  ever  since 
resided.  Although  her  health  is  still  delicate,  and  requires  the  unceasing 
watchfulness  of  love  and  friendship,  she  becomes  every  year  stronger  in  this 
delicious  clime,  and  is  the  happy  mother  of  a  lovely  little  boy. 

Robert  Browning  is  an  admirable  man,  frank,  cheerful,  and  charming. 
IK-  is  .-aid  to  be  the  most  captivating  conversationist  on  the  Continent;  (how- 
ever, I  think  there  are  some  in  America  quite  equal  to  him).  There  is  a 
genial  warmth,  and  a  sparkling  merriment,  in  his  words,  which  made  us 
friends  at  once.  Then  Mrs.  Browning  I  loved  directly.  Oh!  she  is  indeed 
a  precious  gem!  Witli  all  her  varied  and  profound  learning,  and  high  poetic- 
gift,  she  is  as  simple  and  unassuming  in  manner  as  a  child.     What  a  visit  of 


46  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

joy  it  was  to  me,  in  tlieir  love-sanctified  and  art-beautified  home.  Their 
union  seems  perfect  in  happiness,  the  mind  as  well  as  the  heart  having  met 
its  own  affinity.  When  we  parted,  after  some  hours  of  delightful  conversa- 
tion, wherein  the  bright  and  tender  nature  of  Elizabeth  Browning  shone  like 
soft  beams  of  light,  I  felt  as  though  years  of  pleasant  acquaintance  had 
passed  between  us. 

Deal1  Mrs.  Kinney,  our  own  sweet  poetess,  lias  been  most  cordially  kind 
and  affectionate  to  us.  In  her  apartments  we  have  spent  several  evenings 
of  true  enjoyment.  She  has  presented  me  to  a  number  of  distinguished 
people  who  live  here,  Florentines,  English,  and  Americans;  among  them  an 
exceedingly  handsome  couple,  the  Count  and  Countess  Cottrell,  and  two 
brothers  of  Tennyson  the  poet.  We  met  there,  likewise,  Hart,  the  sculptor. 
who  is  modelling  the  statue  of  Henry  Clay  for  the  ladies  of  Richmond.  He 
tells  me  the  work  is  nearly  completed,  and  other  persons  say  it  will  be  a 
most  noble  and  majestic  monument  to  America's  greatest  statesman. 


JENNY  LIND. 

Words  cannot  shadow  forth  the  resistless  charm  of  her  wonderful  voice; 
music  gushes  from  her  throat  in  rills  of  song,  until  the  whole  theatre  is  full 
of  melody. 

In  the  trio  with  the  flutes,  her  voice  soars  far  above  their  sweetest  or 
clearest  tones.  With  merry  glee,  she  seems  to  revel  and  sport  amid  the  higher 
note-,  and  mocks,  with  playful  grace,  all  efforts  of  the  instruments  to  follow 
her  wanderings,  in  her  own  realm  of  song. 

"The  Mountain  Song''  is  a  miracle  of  sound.  In  it  she  imitates  the 
herdsman's  call  to  his  flocks,  and  the  echoes  which  the  hills  give  back  again. 
The  last  long-sustained  note  is  enchanting.  It  is  low,  soft,  and  wild.  It 
swells  around  you — now  above,  now  below — until  the  air  rings  with  harmony. 
It  does  not  resemble  any  sound  of  earth  or  of  air  I  have  ever  listened  to,  save 
the  '•mysterious  music,"  which  haunts  the  shores  of  Pascagoula  Bay. 

The  "Birdling  Song,"  is  exquisite.  The  joyous  warblings  of  the  bird  is  as 
perfectly  heard  as  though  you  wandered  amid  the  deep  forest  glades  of  Swe- 
den. When  she  sings  this  melody  her  face  is  lighted  up  with  a  beautiful 
smile,  and  the  sweet  words,  "I  am  singing,  I  must  be  singing,"  fall  like  pre- 
cious gems  from  her  rosy  lips. 

Her  Italian  music  is  rendered  with  science  and  the  artistic  skill  of  a  per- 


OCT  A  VI A    WALTON    LE    VERT. 


47 


feet  musician.  Wonder  is  excited  at  the  remarkable  power  of  her  clarion- 
like voice;  the  tones  are  delightful,  but  they  do  not  warm  the  heart.  Like 
the  aurora  borealis  of  northern  climes,  it  is  exquisite  in  its  beauty,  but  it  is 
cold  as  moonlight  upon  the  snow.  Hence,  in  Italian  music,  I  would  not  style 
her  the  "  Queen  of  Song,"  but  in  the  melodies  of  her  native  land,  in  the  wild 
music  of  Germany,  she  is  preeminent,  and  reaches  heights  unattainable  by 
any  but  herself.  In  the  uniqueness — in  the  sparkling  brightness  of  her  own 
music,  there  is  a  perfection  which  no  other  vocalist  has  ever  approached,  It 
is  irresistibly  charming.  A  pure  ami  gentle  feeling  possesses  the  heart  as  you 
listen.  The  tones  of  her  voice  come  upon  the  senses  like  the  falling  of  the 
raindrops — like  the  moonlight  of  summer — like  the  breeze  from  southern 
seas.  Tier  music  never  awakens  passionate  emotions  in  the  soul,  or  induces 
the  "pulses'  wild  play."     Its  influence  is  soothing  and  refined. 

At  all  the  concerts  her  opening  song  is  in  Italian,  ami  I  am  persuaded 
no  one  has  ever  heard  her  first  song  without  a  sensation  of  disappoint- 
ment, which,  however,  quickly  changes  into  admiration  when  her  own 
songs  come  to  the  ear.  She  steals  into  the  heart — she  does  not  take  it  by 
coup  de  main. 


CAROLINE    GILMAN. 

Theee  is,  perhaps,  no  woman  whose  name  has  sustained 
itself  longer  and  more  endearingly  with  the  American  public, 
and  is,  at  the  same  time,  more  closely  interwoven  with  the 
rural  and  fireside  literature  of  the  South,  than  that  of  Caroline 
Gilman.  And  now,  at  the  age  of  sixty-six,  she  stands  before 
the  mind's  eye,  serene,  genial,  and  perennial  as  her  fame.  We 
have  strong  faith  in  ehirography  ;  and  the  little  note  she  has 
sent  to  us,  in  a  hand  guiltless  of  a  single  flourish — round,  clear, 
firm,  and  genuine,  would  seem  to  be  a  true  expression  of  her- 
self. 

Mrs.  Gilman  is  best  known  as  a  prose  writer,  though  she  has 
piiblished  a  volume  of  poems  which  is  marked  by  some  of  the 
happiest  characteristics  of  her  style,  and  holds  no  unworthy 
place  in  the  scale  of  her  achievements.  To  children,  especially, 
are  her  pure,  simple,  graceful,  and  vivacious  poems  a  real  com- 
fort and  blessing.  But  it  is  in  the  familiar  and  artistic  sketches 
of  her  "  Recollections  of  a  Southern  Matron,"  and  "  A  New 
England  Bride,"  that  we  meet  the  writer  face  to  face  upon 
the  fair  and  sunny  fields  of  her  own  proper  domain,  and  feel 
most  sensibly  the  unaffected  and  magnetic  sympathies  of  the 
woman. 

Caroline  Howard,  the  daughter  of  Samuel  Howard,  of  Boston, 
Mass.,  was  born  in  that  city  October  8,  179i.  She  had  just 
reached  the  age  of  three  years  when  her  father  died,  and  her 
mother — a  descendant  of  the  Brecks,  an  honorable  family,  well 

48 


CAROLINE    GILMAN.  49 

known  in  Boston  and  Philadelphia — retired  with  her  children 
into  the  country.  Though  our  author,  in  her  piquant  sketch  of 
her  own  life,  claims  for  herself  a  somewhat  early  and  extraordi- 
nary power  of  mental  retention,  instancing  the  memory  of  her 
baptism,  at  Jive  weeks,  with  all  its  graphic  details — "  a  cold  No- 
vember morning  " — "  the  north  aisle  "  of  the  church — the  minister 
bending  over  her  in  his  "  bush-wig,"  and  touching  his  finger  to 
her  "  befrilled  little  forehead  " — she  seems  to  have  taken  little 
note  of  time  or  events  in  the  succeeding  ten  years.  Removing 
with  her  mother,  in  the  meanwhile,  from  one  New  England 
village  to  another,  they  at  last  settled  upon  classic  and  sacred 
ground,  near  the  entrance  of  Mount  Auburn,  in  Cambridge, 
Mass.  From  thence,  at  the  age  of  ten  years,  our  writer  followed 
to  their  resting-place,  in  North  Andover,  the  cherished  remains 
of  her  mother. 

The  religious  element  was  early  developed  in  Miss  Howard, 
and  showed  itself  largely  in  her  first  publication,  a  poem 
entitled  "  Jephthah's  Rash  Vow,"  which  appeared  in  1810. 
This  was  soon  followed  by  "  Jairus'  Daughter,"  brought  out 
in  the  "  North  American  Review." 

In  1819,  she  married  the  Rev.  Samuel  Gilman,  and  removed 
to  Charleston,  S.  C,  the  place  of  his  pastoral  charge.  Dr. 
Gilman  was  known  to  the  world  not  only  as  an  earnest  and 
faithful  preacher  of  the  Unitarian  faith,  but  as  the  author  of 
"  The  Memoirs  of  a  New  England  Village  Choir." 

Not  until  1S32  did  Mrs.  Gilman  establish  a  reputation  as  a 
prose  writer.  She  then  commenced  the  publication  of  a 
weekly  juvenile  journal,  called  the  li  Southern  Rose-bud," 
winch  she  continued  for  seven  years.  From  this  miscellany 
her  writings  have  been,  at  different  times,  collected  and  repub- 
lished. "  Recollections  of  a  New  England  Bride,"  and  "  Of  a 
Southern  Matron,"  ran  rapidly  through  many  editions,  and,  of 
her   numerous    works,    are    undoubtedly    the    most    familiarly 

4 


50  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

known  to  the  public.  "  Poetry  of  Travelling,"  made  up  of 
graceful,  humorous  sketches  of  Northern  and  Southern  life, 
appeared  in  183S.  "  Verses  of  a  Lifetime,"  was  brought  out  at 
Boston  in  1849,  and  followed  by  "  Tales  and  Ballads,"  "  Ruth 
Raymond,  or  Love's  Progress,"  "  Oracles  from  the  Poets,"  and 
"  The  Sibyl " — the  last  two  being  compilations  from  a  wide 
range  of  poetry,  skillfully  classified  to  do  devoir  as  oracles. 
"  Letters  from  Eliza  "Wilkinson,"  during  the  invasion  of  Charles- 
ton by  the  British,  is  highly  interesting  and  valuable  as  a  per- 
sonal memorial  of  the  Revolution. 

Mrs.  Oilman's  autobiographical  sketch  has  been  extensively 
copied,  especially  into  books  of  this  class,  but  affording,  as  its 
name,  graceful,  and  spirited  flow  does,  the  best  clue  in  our  pos- 
session to  her  true  self  and  style,  we  cannot  refrain  from  giving 
place  yet  again  to  large  portions  of  it,  commencing  with  some 
reminiscences  of  her  old  home. 

Our  residence  [she  says]  was  nearly  opposite  Governor  Gerry's,  and  we 
were  frequent  visitors  there.  One  evening  I  saw  a  small  book  on  the 
recessed  window-seat  of  their  parlor.  It  was  Gesner's  "Death  of  Abel;"  I, 
opened  it,  spelt  out  its  contents,  and  soon  tears  began  to  flow.  Eager  to 
finish  it,  and  ashamed  of  emotions  so  novel,  I  screened  my  little  self  so  as  to 
allow  the  light  to  fall  only  on  the  book,  and,  while  forgotten  by  the  group,  I, 
also,  forgetting  the  music  and  mirth  that  surrounded  me,  shed,  at  eight  years, 
the  first  preluding  tears  over  fictitious  sorrow. 

It  was  formerly  the  custom  for  country  people  in  Massachusetts  to  visit 
Boston  in  throngs  on  election  day,  and  see  the  governor  sit  in  his  chair  on 
the  common.  This  pleasure  was  promised  me,  and  a  neighboring  farmer  was 
good  enough  to  offer  to  take  me  to  my  Uncle  Phillips'.  Therefore,  soon 
after  sunrise,  I  was  dressed  in  my  best  frock,  and  red  shoes,  and  with  a  large 
peony  called  a  Hection  posy,  iu  one  hand,  and  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  in  the 
other,  I  sprang  with  a  merry  heart  into  the  chaise,  my  imagination  teeming 
with  soldiers  and  sights,  and  sugar-plums,  and  a  vague  thought  of  something 
like  a  huge  giant  sitting  in  a  big  chair,  overtopping  everybody. 

I  was  an  incessant  talker  while  travelling,  therefore  the  time  seemed 
short  when  I  was  landed,  as  I  supposed,  at  my  Uncle  Phillips'  door,  and  the 


CAROLINE    GILMAN.  51 

farmer  drove  away.  But  what  was  my  distress  at  finding  myself  among 
strangers!  Entirely  ignorant  of  my  uncle's  direction,  I  knew  not  what  to 
say.  Iii  vain  a  cluster  of  kind  ladies  tried  to  soothe  and  amuse  me  with 
promises  of  playmates  and  toys ;  a  sense  of  utter  loneliness  and  intrusion  kept 
me  in  tears.  At  sunset,  the  good  farmer  returned  for  me,  and  I  hurst  into  a 
new  agony  of  grief.  I  have  never  forgotten  that  long,  long  day  with  the 
kind  and  hospitahle,  hut  wrong  Phtilipsea.  If  this  statement  should  chance 
to  he  read  and  remembered  hy  them,  at  this  far  interval,  I  heg  them  to 
receive  the  thanks  which  the  timid  girl  neglected  to  give  to  her  stranger 
friends. 

I  had  seen  scarcely  any  children's  hooks  except  the  Primer,  and  at  the  age 
often  no  poetry  adapted  to  my  age;  therefore,  without  presumption,  I  may 
claim  some  originality  at  an  attempt  at  an  acrostic  on  an  infant,  by  the 
name  of  Howard,  beginning : 

"  How  sweet  is  the  half-opened  rose  ! 
Oh,  how  sweet  is  the  violet  to  view ! 
Who  receives  more  pleasure  from  them," 

Here  it  seems  I  broke  down  in  the  acrostic  department,  and  went  on : 

"  Than  the  one  who  thinks  them  like  you  ? 
Yes,  yes,  you're  a  sweet  little  rose, 
That  will  bloom  like  one  awhile; 
And  then  you  will  be  like  one  still, 
For  I  hope  you  will  die  without  guile." 

The  Davidsons,  at  the  same  age,  would,  I  suppose,  have  smiled  at  this 
poor  rhyming,  but  in  vindication  of  my  ten-year-old-ship  I  must  remark, 
that  they  were  surrounded  by  the  educational  light  of  the  present  era,  while 
I  was  in  the  dark  age  of  1805. 

My  education  was  exceedingly  irregular,  a  perpetual  passing  from  school 
to  school,  from  my  earliest  memory.  I  drew  a  very  little,  and  worked  the 
■•  Babes  in  the  "Wood"  on  white  satin,  with  floss  silk;  my  teacher  and  my 
grandmother  being  the  only  persons  who  recognized  in  the  remarkable  indi- 
viduals that  issued  from  my  hands  a  likeness  to  those  innocent  sufferers. 

I  taught  myself  the  English  guitar  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  from  hearing  a 
schoolmate  take  lessons,  and  ambitiously  made  a  tune,  which  I  doubt  it 
posterity   will    care    to    hear.       By   depriving  myself    of   some    luxuries.    I 


52  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

purchased  an  instrument,  over  which  my  whole  soul  was  poured  in  joy  and 
sorrow  for  many  years.  A  dear  friend,  who  shared  my  desk  at  school,  was 
kind  enough  to  work  out  all  my  sums  for  me  (there  were  no  hlackhoards 
then),  while  I  wrote  a  novel  in  a  series  of  letters,  under  the  euphonious 
name  of  "Eugenia  Fitz  Allen."  The  consequence  is  that,  so  far  as  arithmetic 
is  concerned,  I  have  heen  subject  to  perpetual  mortification  ever  since,  and 
shudder  to  this  day  when  any  one  asks  how  much  is  seven  times  nine ! 

I  never  could  remember  the  multiplication  table,  and  to  heap  coals  of 
fire  on  its  head,  set  it  to  rhyme.  I  wrote  my  school  themes  in  rhyme,  and 
instead  of  following  "Beauty  soon  decays,"  and  "  Cherish  no  ill  designs,"  in 
B  and  0,  I  surprised  my  teacher  with  Pope's  couplet : 

"Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll, 
Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the  soul." 

My  teacher,  who  at  that  period  was  more  ambitious  for  me  than  I  was 
for  myself,  initiated  me  into  Latin,  a  great  step  for  that  period. 

The  desire  to  gratify  a  friend  induced  me  to  study  Watts'  Logic.  I  did 
commit  it  to  memory  conscientiously,  but  on  what  an  ungenial  soil  it  fell ! 
I  think  to  this  day,  that  that  science  is  the  dryest  of  intellectual  chips,  and 
for  sorry  quibblings,  and  self-evident  propositions,  syllogisms  are  only 
equalled  by  legal  instruments,  tin-  which,  by  the  way,  I  have  lately  seen  a 
call  for  reform.     Spirits  of  Locke,  and  Brown,  and  Whewell,  forgive  me ! 

About  this  period  I  walked  four  miles  a  week  to  Boston  to  join  a  private 
class  in  French. 

The  religious  feeling  was  always  powerful  within  me.  I  remember  in 
girlhood,  a  passionate  joy  in  lonely  prayer,  and  a  delicious  elevation,  when, 
with  upraised  look,  I  trod  my  chamber  floor,  reciting  or  singing  Watts' 
Sacred  Lyrics.  At  sixteen  I  joined  the  communion  at  the  Episcopal  Church 
in  Cambridge. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  I  made  another  sacrifice  in  dress  to  purchase  a 
Bible,  with  a  margin  sufficiently  large  to  enable  me  to  insert  a  commentary. 
To  this  object  I  devoted  several  months  of  study,  transferring  to  its  pages  un- 
deliberate convictions. 

I  am  glad  to  class  myself  with  the  few  who  first  established  the  Sabbath 
School  and  Benevolent  Society  at  Watertown,  Massachusetts,  and  to  say  that 
I  have  endeavored,  under  all  circumstances,  wherever  my  lot  has  fallen,  to 
carry  out  the  work  of  social  love. 


CAROLINE    OILMAN.  53 

At  the  age  of  sixteen  I  wrote  "  Jephthah's  Rash  Vow."  I  was  gratified 
by  the  request  of  an  introduction  from  Miss  Hannah  Adams,  the  erudite,  the 
simple-minded,  and  gentle-mannered  author  of  the  "  History  of  Religions." 
After  her  warm  expressions  of  praise  for  my  verses,  I  said  to  her: 

"  Oh,  Miss  Adams,  how  strange  to  hear  a  lady  who  knows  so  much 
admire  me  !" 

"My  dear,"  replied  she,  with  her  little  lisp,  "my  writings  are  merely 
compilations,  Jephthah  is  your  own." 

This  incident  is  a  specimen  of  her  habitual  humility. 

To  show  the  change  from  that  period,  I  will  remark,  that  when  I  learned 
that  my  verses  had  been  surreptitiously  printed  in  a  newspaper,  I  wept  bit- 
terly, and  was  as  alarmed  as  if  I  bad  been  detected  in  man's  apparel. 

The  next  effusion  of  mine  was  "Jairus1  Daughter,"  which  was  inserted, 
by  request,  in  the  "North  American  Review,"  then  a  miscellany. 

A  few  years  later  I  passed  four  winters  at  Savannah,  and  still  vividly 
remember  the  love  and  sympathy  of  that  genial  community. 

In  1819,  I  married  Samuel  Oilman,  and  came  to  Charleston,  S.  0.,  where 
he  was  ordained  pastor  of  the  Unitarian  Church. 

In  1832,  I  commenced  editing  the  "Rose-bud,"  a  hebdomadal,  the  first 
juvenile  newspaper,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the  Union.  Mrs.  Child  had  led  the 
way  in  her  '■  Monthly  Miscellany,"  to  my  apprehension  one  of  the  most  per- 
fect works  that  have  ever  appeared  for  youth.  The  "Rose-bud"  gradually 
unfolded  through  seven  columns,  taking  the  title  of  the  "  Southern  Rose," 
and  being  the  vehicle  of  some  rich  literature  and  valuable  criticisms. 

From  this  periodical  I  have  reprinted  at  various  times,  the  following 
volumes : 

"Recollections  of  a  New  England  Bride;"  "Recollections  of  a  Southern 
Matron  ;"  "  Ruth  Raymond,  or  Love's  Progress ;"  "  Poetry  of  Travelling  in  the 
United  States ;"  "  Tales  and  Ballads  ;"  "  Verses  of  a  Lifetime ;"  " Letters  of 
Eliza  Wilkinson,  during  the  Invasion  of  Charleston ;"  also,  several  volumes 
for  youth,  now  collected  in  one,  as  "Mrs.  Oilman's  Gift  Book."  The 
"  Poetry  of  Travelling,"  "  Tales  and  Ballads,"  and  "  Eliza  Wilkinson,"  are  out 
of  print.  The  "Oracles  from  the  Poets,"  and  "The  Sibyl,"  which  occu- 
pied me  two  year-;,  are  of  later  date.  To  these  may  be  added  "Oracles  for 
Youth." 

On  the  publication  of  the  "Recollections  of  a  New  England  Bride," 
I  received  thanks  and  cimgratulations  from  every  quarter,  and  I  attribute  its 
popularity  to  the  fact  that  it  was  the  first  attempt,  in  that  particular  mode, 


54  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

to  enter  into  the  recesses  of  American  homes  and  hearths,  the  first  unveiling 
of  what  I  may  call  the  altar  of  the  Lares  in  our  cuisine. 

I  feel  proud  to  say  that  a  chapter  in  that  work  was  among  the  first 
heralds  of  the  temperance  movement,  a  cause  to  which  I  shall  cheerfully 
give  my  later  as  well  as  earlier  powers. 

After  the  publication  of  the  "Poetry  of  Travelling,"  I  opened  to  a  notice 
in  a  review,  and  was  greeted  with,  "This  affectation  will  never  do."  It 
has  amused  me  since  to  notice  how  "  this  affectation "  has  spread,  until  we 
have  now  the  "Poetry  of  Teaching,"  and  the  "Poetry  of  Science,"  etc.,  etc. 

My  only  pride  is  in  my  books  for  children.  I  have  never  thought  myself 
a  poet,  only  a  versifier  ;  but  I  know  that  I  have  learned  the  way  to  youthful 
hearts,  and  I  think  I  have  originated  several  styles  of  writing  for  them. 

AVhile  dwelling  on  the  above  sketch,  I  have  discovered  the  difficulty  of 
autobiography,  in  the  impossibility  of  referring  to  one's  faults.  Perchance 
were  I  to  detail  the  personal  mistakes  and  deficiencies  of  this  long  era,  I 
might  lose  the  sympathy  which  may  have  followed  me  thus  far. 

I  have  purposely  confined  myself  to  my  earlier  recollections,  believing 
that  my  writings  will  be  the  best  exponents  of  my  views  and  experience.  It 
would  be  wrong,  however,  for  me  not  to  allude,  in  passing,  to  one  subject 
which  has  had  a  potent  influence  on  my  life  :  I  refer  to  mesmerism  or  mag- 
netic psychology.  This  seemingly  mysterious  agency  gave  me  relief  when 
other  human  aid  was  hopeless. 

My  Heavenly  Father  has  called  me  to  varied  trials  of  joy  and  sorrow.  I 
trust  they  have  all  drawn  me  nearer  to  him.  I  have  resided  in  Charleston 
thirty-one  years,  and  shall  probably  make  my  final  resting-place  in  the 
beautiful  cemetery  adjoining  my  husband's  church — the  church  of  my  faith 
and  my  love. 

This  sketch  was  written  in  1854.  Since  that  time  we 
have  to  record  the  death  of  Dr.  Gilman,  and,  very  recently, 
the  publication  of  a  pure,  womanly  memorial  of  him  by  Mrs. 
Gilman.  A  southern  paper  pays  the  following  tribute  to  the 
work : 

Records  of  Inscriptions  in  the  Cemetery  and  Building  of  the  Unitarian,  formerly  denominated  the 
Independent  Church,  Archdale  street,  Charleston,  S.  C.     From  1777  to  1860. 

The  beautiful  monument  that  perpetuates  the  remembrance  of  the  faithful 
services  and  pure  life  of  the  tender  and  truthful  Gilman,  with  its  touching 


CAROLINE    OILMAN.  55 

adornment  of  lasting  love,  suggested  this  collection  of  epitaphs.  The  flowers 
laid  by  the  hand  of  affection  upon  that  shrine,  caused  the  generous  heart  of 
Mrs.  Oilman  to  resolve  to  do  for  others  what  had  been  done  for  one  distin- 
guished and  cherished  name.  Gratified  and  struck  with  the  fresh  delight 
with  which  the  almost  worn-out  inscriptions  on  the  old  gravestones  were 
read,  it  occurred  to  her  that  a  printed  collection  of  these  tributes  on  the 
marble  would  be  acceptable  to  the  congregation  and  circle  of  friends.  We 
have  before  us  the  execution  of  this  happy  thought.  The  pious  work  could 
not  have  fallen  into  more  fitting  hands.  The  volume  is  a  storehouse  of 
sadly  sweet  memories,  which  the  names  upon  the  stones  in  that  beautiful 
God's  Acre  will  revive  in  the  breasts  of  many  of  our  readers. 

May  the  days  which  remain  to  this  estimable  woman — this 
"past-master  in  the  order  of  American  female  authors" — like 
the  latter  days  of  our  noble  Irving,  round  in  ripe  golden  sunset 
to  their  rest. 

THE  LOST  MAIL. 

My  cousin,  Lewis  Walpole,  from  the  earliest  childhood,  was  remarkable 
for  finding  things.  His  companions  thought  he  enjoyed  what  is  commonly 
called  good  luck,  but  a  closer  philosophy  might  say  he  was  particularly 
observing.  He  once  found  twro  letters  in  a  morning  walk,  the  reward  for 
which  filled  his  pocket  with  spending  money  for  a  year;  and  as  we  were 
rambling  together  one  day,  he  brought  up  from  the  mud  on  his  ratan  a  gold 
ring.  It  was  a  plain  ring  with  two  initials ;  and  though  no  immediate  re- 
ward followed,  it  introduced  him  to  a  friendship  which  was  like  golden 
apples  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  Once  I  stepped  on  a  bit  of  dirty  paper ; 
Lewis  followed  me,  picked  it  up,  and  laid  it  in  his  little  snug  pocket-book. 
Six  weeks  after,  an  advertisement  appeared,  offering  three  hundred  dollars 
reward  tor  that  very  bit  of  paper,  which  was  the  half  of  a  note  worth  as 
many  thousands. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  pins  sprang  from  the  earth  for  Lewis,  for  he  was 
never  without  a  row  of  them  in  his  waistcoat.  If  an  old  lady  was  in  want 
of  one,  Lewis  was  always  ready,  and  then  his  head  was  patted,  and  he  was 
treati-d  to  tit-bits.  If  a  pretty  girl's  shawl  was  to  be  fastened,  behold  Lewis' 
pin  came  forth,  and  then  such  a  beautiful  smile  beamed  upon  him  !  If  a 
child  was  in  danger  of  losing  her  bonnet,  Lewis's  offered  pin  was  seized,  and 


56  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

lie  was  caressed  with  lips  and  eyes,  for  her  preservation  from  a  maternal 
chiding. 

Cousin  Lewis,  some  time  since,  removed  to  the  far  West,  and  I,  his  senior 
by  a  dozen  years  (though  he  was  a  stricken  bachelor),  went  with  him  to 
darn  his  stockings  and  keep  his  hearth  clean.  We  called  our  log  house 
Sparrownest,  and  in  one  way  and  another  made  it  as  cozy  as  heart  could 
wish.  What  could  poor  Cousin  Lewis  find  now,  in  his  wide  fields  and  vast 
forests?  Not  pins,  certainly  ;  hut  one  day,  twenty  miles  from  home,  he  did 
find  in  the  wild  woods  a  strange  thing,  a  pretty  Irish  girl  about  sixteen  years 
old,  all  alone,  wringing  her  hands  and  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
Cousin  Lewis  dismounted  (he  was  a  noble  horseman),  and  offered  her  assist- 
ance.    The  poor  child  only  wept  the  more,  crying  out : 

"  And  isn't  it  alone  in  the  wide  world  that  I  am." 

It  was  an  awkward  business,  but  Cousin  Lewis  knew  better  than  anybody 
how  to  do  a  kindness,  so  he  wiped  her  eyes,  soothed  her,  and  bade  her  be  of 
good  cheer  ;  then  took  her  up  on  his  saddle  and  brought  her  home. 

What  big  bundle  has  Cousin  Lewis  brought  home  ?  thought  I,  as  he  rode 
np  to  the  door  in  the  twilight — and  great  was  my  astonishment  to  see  a  red- 
cheeked  girl  slip  down  from  the  saddle,  with  a  shamefaced  look.  I  bestirred 
myself  about  supper,  for  the  child  was  cold  and  hungry.  When  her  appetite 
was  appeased  (she  ate  a  whole  chicken,  poor  tiling !)  she  began  to  cry. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  child  ?"  said  I. 

"  And  isn't  it  of  my  father  I'm  thinking!"  said  she,  sobbing  and  wringing 
her  hands.  "  There  were  twenty  of  us,  big  and  little,  in  the  wagons,  and  him 
in  the  front  one.  It  was  with  a  clever  old  lady  I  was,  in  the  afther  one,  we 
to  take  the  charge  of  one  another,  ye  mind.  And  when  the  'orses  was 
stopped  for  walthering,  I  minded  to  go  and  gather  some  flowers  I  had  never 
seen  in  my  own  counthry.  So  I  sated  myself  down  to  pull  some  flowers,  and 
a  bit  of  weed  thereabout  looked  like  a  shamrock,  and  I  fell  a  thinkin';  a  kind 
of  thdream  came  upon  me,  and  I  was  at  play  with  Kathleen  and  the  girls, 
and  thin  we  were  for  throwing  peat  at  Dermot,  and  Dermot  made  as  if  to 

kiss  me,  the  impudent ,  and  I  slapped  him  on  the  face,  and  thin  I  knew 

nothin'  more  until  I  started  up  and  found  myself  alone.  The  wagons  were 
gone,  the  owls  were  hootin',  and  the  night  comin'  on.  Then  I  shouted,  and 
cried,  and  raved,  and  ran  till  my  feet  failed  me,  and  my  heart  was  jist  like 
to  break  in  two,  when  the  masther  (here  she  made  a  low  courtesy  to  Cousin 
Lewis)  came  along  like  the  light,  on  a  dark  night,  and  took  compassion  on 
the  poor  girl ;  and  she  will  love  him  all  her  days  for  his  goodness,  she 
will." 


CAROLINE    OILMAN.  57 

"With  that,  Cousin  Lewis  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  I  punched 
the  fire. 

So  Dora  became  one  of  us,  and  she  sang  about  Sparrownest  like  a  young 
bird,  with  a  natural  sigh  now*  and  then  for  her  father. 

Did  Cousin  Lewis  find  anything  else  in  the  forest?  Listen.  As  he  was 
riding  on  horseback,  in  his  deliberate  way,  on  the  far  outskirts  of  bis  fields, 
he  saw  something  white  scattered  among  the  green  herbage.  lie  spurred 
his  horse  toward  the  spot.  It  was  strewed  with  letters,  which  were  dashed 
with  mud  and  rain.  Cousin  Lewis  alighted,  and  quietly  deposited  thern  all 
in  his  saddle-bags. 

Dora  and  I  bad  made  a  blazing  fire,  for  the  night  was  chilly,  and  while  I 
was  knitting,  she  trod  about  with  a  light  step,  laying  the  cloth  for  supper, 
and  singing  an  Irish  air  about  "  Dermot,  my  dear."  When  Cousin  Lewis 
came  in,  she  sprang  toward  him  with  such  joy,  and  hung  his  hat  on  a  peg, 
and  put  his  heavy  saddle-bags  in  one  corner,  and  brought  him  water  to  bathe 
his  hands,  and  helped  to  draw  off  his  great  boots.  He  looked  very  fondly  on 
her.  You  would  not  have  thought  be  was  so  much  older  than  she,  for  his 
hair  was  curling  and  black  as  the  raven's ;  mine  has  been  grey  many  years. 

At  supper,  Cousin  Lewis  told  us  about  the  letters.  I  confess,  old  as  I  am, 
I  could  scarcely  keep  my  hands  from  the  saddle-bags,  and  I  thought  Dora 
would  have  torn  them  open. 

"We  shall  have  a  rainy  day  to-morrow,"  said  Cousin  Lewis  in  bis  quiet 
■way,  "'  and  will  want  amusement ;  besides,  our  Yankee  clock  points  to  bed- 
time." 

"Masther,  dear,"  said  Dora,  imploringly,  "the  lethers  will  not  slape  a 
wink  for  wanting  to  be  read." 

"  TVe  must  keep  them  locked  up,  my  love,  as  we  do  restless  children," 
said  Cousin  Lewis,  and  I  think  I  saw  him  kiss  the  hand  that  struggled  to  take 
the  key  of  the  saddle-bags  away  from  him.  No  wonder  he  felt  young,  for  he 
was  very  straight  and  graceful. 

The  next  morning,  when  we  assembled  at  breakfast,  the  rain  descended 
in  that  determined  style  which  announces  a  regular  outpouring  for  the  day. 

Dora  and  I  glanced  at  the  saddle-bags ;  Cousin  Lewis  smiled. 

"Have  yim  settled  it  with  your  conscience,"  said  be,  "whether  those 
letters  should  be  read  ?     There  lias  evidently  been  a  mail  robbery." 

"  You  wouldn't  in  rason  be  after  sendin'  the  letthers  away,  poor  things," 
said  Dora,  "  when  they  were  left  in  the  forests.  And  it  wasn't  that  ye  did 
to  me,  any  how  !" 

Cull-in   Lewis  looked  down,  and  sighed,  and  smiled.      I  could  not  tell 


58  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

whether  he  was  thinking  of  the  letters  or  Dura,  but  I  noticed,  when  he 
smiled,  how  white  and  even  his  teeth  were. 

After  some  discussion,  we  decided  that  no  seal  was  to  he  broken  where 
the  superscription  was  legible,  but  that  it  was  right  and  proper  that  we 
should  constitute  ourselves  a  committee  to  deride  which  of  them  were  in  a 
state  to  return  to  the  post-office.  Cousin  Lewis  was  appointed  reader. 
While  he  gave  us  the  contents  of  the  following,  Dora  amused  herself  by 
treading  on  Carlo's  paw,  who  looked  up  in  her  face  and  whimpered.  The 
date  was  erased 

"Dbae  Judge:  You  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  *****  ]i:1s  taken 
the  field  against  us.  What  will  European  cabinets  say  when  such  addle- 
headed  fellows  form  a  part  of  our  government  ?     B ,  is  up  and  doing. 

You  must  be  on  the  alert,  and  circumvent  these  movements  if  possible.  The 
Secretaryship  may  yet  be  secured  by  a  general  canvassing.  T.  and  J.  are  fit 
tools.  Take  care  of  S.,  and  give  a  sop  to  the  old  Cerberus  on  the  Island. 
Keep  the  date  in  mind,  as  " 

The  rest  of  the  writing  was  obliterated.  The  next  letter  made  Dora  stop 
playing  with  Carlo's  paw. 

"Philadelphia,  ktc. 

"Dear  Russell:  I  received  the  books  safely  and  thank  you.  After  look- 
ing them  over,  I  had  an  odd  dream,  and  was  awoke  with  my  own  excessive 
laughter.  It  is  utterly  preposterous  that  a  staid  lawyer,  half  a  century  old, 
should  l>e  dreaming  such  dreams. 

"  I  dreamed  that  I  was  blowing  soap  bubbles  out  of  a  clay  pipe,  a  thing  I 
have  not  done  since  you  and  I  were  boys  at  Fishkill.  One  after  another 
they  floated  off,  poetically  enough ;  now  rising  gracefully  in  the  sunbeams, 
and  now  exploding  softly  on  the  turf  at  my  feet.  At  length  one.  the  king  of 
the  rest,  grew  and  grew  at  the  end  of  my  pipe,  until  it  became  as  large  as  a 
wasli  basin.  It  fell  and  lay  roiling  about,  offering  beautiful  prismatic  hues 
to  the  eye,  when  presently  a  little  square-nosed  pig  came  grunting  toward  it. 
Twice  he  smelt  it  and  tried  to  turn  it,  but  retreated  as  it  rolled  toward  him. 
Again  he  seemed  to  gather  up  his  courage,  and  thrusting  his  square  snout 
against  it,  it  exploded  with  a  noise  like  a  pistol.  Little  squarenose  ran  as  if 
for  life  and  death,  and  I  awoke  in   a  positive  perspiration  with  excess  of 

laughter. 

"interpretation  of 

"  your 

"  James  Col — ." 


CAROLINE    GILMAN.  59 

Dora  shouted  with  glee  at  this  droll  description,  and  her  interest  was 
kept  awake  by  the  following,  written  evidently  by  a  relation  of  a  certain 
popular  character: 

"Mrs  Sippi 
"  West  End  of  A  merry  K. 

"  Dear  Teller  :  Wot  with  my  see  sickness  and  warious  causes,  its  bin 
utterly  onpossible  for  me  to  rite  to  you,  tho'  it  warnt  for  want  of  thinkin'  on 
you,  as  the  thief  said  to  the  constable.  Wos  you  ever  see  sick,  cousin  Veller? 
If  you  wos,  you  would  say  that  you  felt  in  the  sitivation  of  a  barrel  of  licker, 
that's  rolled  over  and  over  agin  its  vill.  A  most  mortifyin'  thing  happen'd 
a  board  the  wessel.  You  know,  my  lovin'  cozen,  the  jar  of  bake  beans  you 
put  aboard  for  my  private  eatin'.  Wot  should  the  stewhard  do,  but  set  it 
atop  of  three  basins  in  my  stateroom,  and  won  day  wen  the  ladies  wos  eatin' 
lunch,  there  come  an  awful  lurch  of  the  see,  the  wich  burstin'  open  my  door, 
driv  the  whole  concern  into  the  cabin.  The  beans  was  mouldy  beyond 
account,  and  smelt  werry  wilely.  as  the  pig  said  wen  he  vent  to  his  neigh- 
bor's  pen.  The  beans  was  awfully  griddle  about  the  floor  under  the  ladies' 
feet,  who  scrambled  up  into  the  cheers.  I  put  my  head  out  of  my  birth  to 
explain,  and  was  taken  with  an  awful  qualm  in  the  midst  of  a  pology. 

•■  Give  my  love  to  miss ,  and  tell  her  the  Merrycans  have  been  quite 

shy  of  my  letter  of  introducshun  from  her.  I'm  jealous  she  didn't  move  in 
sich  respectable  society  as  me,  or  else  she  made  a  mistake,  as  the  dissector 
said  wen  he  got  hold  of  a  live  body.  I  ain't  seen  a  drunken  lad}',  nor  a 
young  woman  married  to  her  grandfather,  nor  a  hypocriticle  parson  since  I 
left  the  wessel. 

"  I  vill  write  agin  as  ever  I  get  to  Mis  Soreeye. 

"  Your  loven  cozen 

"Timothy." 

It  may  well  be  imagined  that  Sparrownest  rang  with  our  mirth,  for  little 
matters  move  one  in  the  country.  Dora  laughed  until  she  cried,  but  her 
mood  was  soon  changed  when  Cousin  Lewis,  in  his  pathetic  tones,  read  the 
next  letter. 

"Father:  I  take  my  pen  in  desperation,  not  in  hope — and  yet  perhaps, 
when  you  know  that  the  body  of  my  child  lies  beside  me  without  my  having 
the  means  to  buy  him  a  shroud,  you  may  relent.  Poor  Edward  is  stretched 
on  his  hard  mattress  beside  the  boy,  and  his  hollow  cough  rings  fearfully 
through  the  empty   room.      Oh,    father,    if   he  had  but  that  old  sofa  you 


60  WOMEX    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

banished  to  the  garret  on  the  night  of  my  birth-day  ball!  You  will  think 
me  crazy  to  say  so,  but  you  are  a  murderer,  father.  My  boy  died  for 
want  of  nourishment,  and    you  are  murdering  Edward  too,  the  best,  the 

noblest .     Oh,  Heaven,  to  think  of  the  soft  beds  in  your  vacant  rooms, 

and  the  gilt-edged  cups  from  which  you  drink  your  odorous  tea,  with  that 
white  sugar  sparkling  like  diamonds !  I  have  just  given  poor  Edward  his 
nauseous  draught  in  a  tin  vessel.  I  have  not  had  time  to  cleanse  it  since 
my  baby  was  ill. 

"My  baby — how  tranquilly  he  rests!  Would  that  Edward  and  I  might 
lie  down  beside  him  ! 

''Father,    will   God   treat  his  erring  children  as  you  do?       'Like  as  a 

father   pitieth   his  children' Oh,    Father  in  Heaven,  art  thou  like 

mine?" 

"  A  change  has  come  upon  Edward,  father ;  he  is  dying dead." 

Dora  laid  her  head  upon  the  table  in  tears,  but  she  soon  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  listened  with  feminine  interest  to  another  letter. 

"  Xew  York. 
"Dear  Isabel:  You  must  not  fail  to  be  here  on  the  21st  of  next  month 
as  my  first  bridesmaid.  I  can  take  no  excuse.  My  dress  is  perfect ;  papa 
imported  it  for  me.  There  is  and  shall  be  no  copy  in  the  city.  The  pearls 
too  are  exquisitely  unique.  You  can  form  some  judgment  of  what  will  be 
necessary  for  your  own  dress  by  mine.  Of  course  you  must  be  less  ele- 
gant than  the  bride. 

"  Frock  with  lace  trimmings,  etc $150 

'•  Veil 80 

"  Pocket  handkerchief  (the  divine  thing!)  .         ...  20 

"  Embroidered  gloves          .......  3 

"  Shoes 2  50 

"  Stockings 5 

"  Embroidered  scarf  ........  10 

"  Set  of  pearls 20° 

"  Bouquet  of  natural  flowers 5 

"  Come,  dearest  Isabel,  and  witness  my  dress  and  my  felicity ! 

"  Your  own 

"Eleanoh. 

"P.  s. You  know  you  must  appear  with  me  on  Sunday.     Mamma  has 

bought  me  a  heaven  of  a  bonnet  with  feathers." 


CAROLINE    GILMAN.  61 

Dora  rolled  up  her  eves.  "  And  isn't  it  feathers  that's  to  make  that 
bird?"  said  she.  Upon  which  she  began  to  speculate  on  her  own  wants  if 
she  should  be  married,  and  decided  that  ten  dollars  would  be  an  ample  dower 
for  her. 

And  now  the  impatient  girl's  fingers  were  again  thrust  into  the  saddle- 
bags, but  as  she  drew  out  several  letters,  I  observed  that  the  superscription 
on  one  arrested  her  attention.  She  became  very  pale,  broke  the  seal  impetu- 
ously, and  glanced  at  the  signature.  A  joyous  flush  came  over  her  cheeks, 
she  danced  about,  waving  the  letter  in  the  air,  caught  me  round  the  neck 
and  kissed  me,  and  threw  herself  into  Cousin  Lewis'  arms  in  a  passion  of 
tears.     "When  she  could  speak,  she  sobbed  out : 

"  And  isn't  it  father's  own  handwriting,  darlings?  and  isn't  ho  at  Louis- 
ville, weeping  for  his  own  Dora?  And  will  not  the  masther  "  (here  she 
disengaged  herself  from  Cousin  Lewis,  and  stood  before  him  with  her  accus- 
tomed courtesy)  "  take  poor  Dora  to  the  father  that's  her  own  ?" 

Cousin  Lewis  was  startled. 

"  I  had  hoped,"  said  lie,  gravely,  "  that  is,  Cousin  Rachel  and  I  had  hoped, 
that  Sparrownest  would  have  been  your  home  for  life,  Dora." 

Dora  looked  down,  embarrassed,  for  my  Cousin  Lewis'  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her,  and  they  were  very  black  and  sparkling,  though  he  was  a  stricken 
bachelor. 

I  withdrew  toward  the  window,  but  did  not  altogether  look  away.  I 
saw  Cousin  Lewis  take  Dora's  hand ;  I  saw  Dora  blush  all  up  to  the  eye- 
brows; I  heard  Cousin  Lewis  speak  in  a  pleading  tone.  One  would  not  have 
thought  him  an  old  bachelor  by  his  voice.  I  saw  little  Dora  tremble,  her 
heart  seemed  starting  from  her  bosom,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

"I  will  not  distress  you,"  said  Cousin  Lewis,  tenderly.  "Tell  me  all 
your  feelings,  as  you  are  wont  to  do.  Can  you  love  me,  and  be  my 
wedded  wife  ?" 

Dora  looked  up  through  her  tears.     Her  eyes  shone  sweetly. 

"  I  will  love  the  masther  to  the  day  of  my  death  and  after,"  said  she, 
"but  thin  I  will  love  Dermot  better,  and  it  is  a  sin  is  that." 

Cousin  Lewis  dropped  her  hand  abruptly,  and  left  the  room.  He  stayed 
away  an  hour,  and  then  calmly  prepared  for  Dora's  journey.  And  now 
I  never  hear  him  speak  her  name. 


62  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


MY  KNITTING-WORK. 

Youth's  buds  have  oped  and  fallen  from  my  life's  expanding  tree, 
And  soberer  fruits  have  ripened  on  its  hardened  stalks  for  me; 
No  longer  with  a  buoyant  step  I  tread  my  pilgrim  way, 
And  earth's  horizon  closer  bends  from  hastening  day  to  day. 

No  more  with  curious  questioning  I  seek  the  fervid  crowd, 
Nor  to  ambition's  glittering  shrine  I  feel  my  spirit  bowed; 
But,  as  bewitching  flatteries  from  worldly  ones  depart, 
Love's  circle  narrows  deeply  about  my  quiet  heart. 

Home  joys  come  thronging  round  me,  bright,  blessed,  gentle,  kind; 
The  social  meal,  the  fireside  book,  unfettered  mind  with  mind ; 
The  unsought  song  that  asks  no  praise,  but  spirit-stirred  and  free, 
Wakes  up  within  the  thoughtful  soul  remembered  melody. 

Nor  shall  my  humble  hiitting-work pass  unregarded  here, 
The  faithful  friend  who  oft  has  chased  a  furrow  or  a  tear, 
Who  comes  with  still  unwearied  round  to  cheer  my  failing  eye, 
And  bid  the  curse  of  ennui  from  its  polished  weapons  fly. 

Companionable  hiitting-worh  !  when  gayer  friends  depart, 
Thou  hold'st  thy  busy  station  ever  very  near  my  heart ; 
And  when  no  social  living  tones  to  sympathy  appeal, 
I  hear  a  gentle  accent  from  thy  softly  clashing  steel. 

My  liiittinij-irnrli .'  my  hnitting-worh !  a  confidant  art  thou, 
As  smooth  and  shining  on  my  lap  thou  liest  beside  me  now  ; 
Thou  know'st  some  stories  of  my  thoughts  the  many  may  not  know, 
As  round  and  round  the  accustomed  path  my  careful  fingers  go. 

San  et,  silent,  quiet  'knitting-wor'k  !  thou  interruptest  not 
My  reveries  and  pleasant  thoughts,  forgetting  and  forgot ! 
I  take  thee  up,  and  lay  thee  down,  and  use  thee  as  I  may, 
And  not  a  contradicting  word  thy  burnished  lips  will  say. 


CAROLINE    OILMAN.  63 

My  moralizing  lenitting-work  !  thy  threads  most  aptly  show 
How  evenly  around  life's  span  our  busy  threads  should  go  ; 
And  if  a  stitch  perchance  should  drop,  as  life's  frail  stitches  will, 
How,  if  we  patient  take  it  up,  the  work  may  prosper  still. 


TnE  PLANTATION. 

Farewell,  awhile  the  city's  hum 

Where  busy  footsteps  fall, 
And  welcome  to  my  weary  eye 

The  planter's  friendly  hall. 

Here  let  me  rise  at  early  dawn, 
And  list  the  mockbird's  lay, 

That,  warbling  near  our  lowland  home, 
Sits  on  the  waving  spray. 

Then  tread  the  shady  avenue. 

Beneath  the  cedar's  gloom, 
Or  gum-tree,  with  its  nickered  shade, 

Or  chinquapin's  perfume. 

The  myrtle-tree,  the  orange  wild, 

The  cypress'  flexile  bough, 
The  holly  with  its  polished  leaves, 

Are  all  before  me  now. 

There  towering  with  imperial  pride, 

The  rich  magnolia  stands, 
And  here,  in  softer  loveliness, 

The  white-bloomed  bay  expands. 

The  long  grey  moss  hangs  gracefully, 

Idly  I  twine  its  wreaths, 
Or  stop  to  catch  the  fragrant  air 

The  frequent  blossom  breathes. 


Q4  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Life  wakes  around — the  red  bird  darts 
Like  flame  from  tree  to  tree ; 

The  whip-poor-will  complains  alone, 
The  robin  whistles  free. 

The  frightened  hare  scuds  by  my  path, 
And  seeks  the  thicket  nigh  ; 

The  squirrel  climbs  the  hickory  bough, 
Thence  peeps  with  careful  eye. 

The  humming-bird,  with  busy  wing, 
In  rainbow  beauty  moves, 

Above  the  trumpet-blossom  floats, 
And  sips  the  tube  he  loves. 

Triumphant  to  yon  withered  pine, 

The  soaring  eagle  flies, 
There  builds  her  eyry  'mid  the  clouds. 

And  man  and  heaven  defies. 

The  hunter's  bugle  echoes  near, 
And  see — his  weary  train, 

With  mingled  howling  scent  the  woods, 
Or  scour  the  open  plain. 

Yon  skiff  is  darting  from  the  cove, 
And  list  the  negro's  song, 

The  theme,  his  owner  and  his  boat — 
While  glide  the  crew  along. 

And  when  the  leading  voice  is  lost, 
Receding  from  the  shore, 

His  brother  boatmen  swell  the  strain 
In  chorus  with  the  oar. 


CAROLINE    GILMAN.  05 


TO  THE  UKSULIKES. 

Oh  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  sky  above — your  quiet  bark — 

By  soft  winds  blest ! 

Still  toil  in  duty  and  commune  with  heaven, 

World- weaned  and  free  ; 
God  to  his  humblest  creatures  room  has  given, 

And  space  to  be. 

Space  for  the  eagle  in  the  vaulted  sky 

To  plume  his  wing — 
Space  for  the  ring-dove  by  her  young  to  lie, 

And  softly  sing. 

Space  for  the  sun-flower,  bright  with  yellow  glow 

To  court  the  sky — 
Space  for  the  violet,  where  the  wild  woods  grow 

To  live  and  die. 

Space  for  the  ocean  in  its  giant  might, 

To  swell  and  rave — 
Space  for  the  river,  tinged  with  rosy  light, 

Where  green  banks  wave. 

Space  for  the  sun  to  tread  his  path  in  might, 

And  golden  pride — 
Space  for  the  glow-worm,  calling,  by  her  light, 

Love  to  her  side. 

Then  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  skies  above,  and  your  still  bark 

By  kind  winds  blest. 
5 


QQ  WOMEN     OF    THE    SOUTH. 


MY   PIAZZA. 

My  piazza!  my  piazza!  some  boast  their  lordly  halls, 
Where  softened  gleam  of  curtained  light  on  golden  treasure  falls, 
Where  pictures  in  ancestral  rank  look  stately  side  by  side, 
And  forms  of  beauty  and  of  grace  move  on  in  living  pride ! 

1  envy  not  the  gorgeousness  that  decks  the  crowded  room, 
Where  vases  with  exotic  flowers  throw  out  their  sick  perfume, 
With  carpets  where  the  slippered  foot  sinks  soft  in  downy  swell, 
And  mirrored  walls  reflect  the  cheek  where  dimpled  beauties  dwell. 

My  fresh  and  cool  piazza !  I  seek  the  healthy  breeze 
That  circles  round  thy  shading  vines  and  softly-waving  trees, 
With  step  on  step  monotonous,  I  tread  thy  level  floor, 
And  muse  upon  the  sacred  past,  or  calmly  look  before. 

My  bright  and  gay  piazza!  Hove  thee  in  the  hour, 
When  morning  decks  with  dewy  gems  the  wavy  blade  and  flower, 
When  the  bird  alights  and  sings  his  song  upon  the  neighboring  tree, 
As  if  his  notes  were  only  made  to  cheer  himself  and  me. 

My  cool  and  fresh  piazza!  I  love  thee  when  the  sun 
His  long  and  fervid  circuit  o'er  the  burning  earth  has  run  ; 
I  joy  to  watch  his  parting  light  loom  upward  to  the  eye, 
And  view  the  pencil-touch  shade  off,  and  then  in  softness  die. 

My  sociable  piazza !  I  prize  thy  quiet  talk, 

When  arm  in  arm  with  one  I  love,  I  tread  the  accustomed  walk  ; 

Or  loll  within  our  rocking-chairs,  not  over  nice  or  wise,. 

And  yield  the  careless  confidence,  where  heart  to  heart  replies. 

My  piazza,  my  piazza!   my  spirit  oft  rejoices, 

When  from  thy  distant  nooks  I  hear  the  sound  of  youthful  voices  ; 

The  careless  jest,  the  bursting  laugh,  the  carol  wildly  gay, 

Or  cheerful  step  with  exercise  that  crowns  the  studious  day. 


CAROLINE    OILMAN.  67 

My  beautiful  piazza!  thou  hast  thy  nightly  boast, 
When  brightly  in  the  darkened  sky  appear  the  heavenly  host ; 
Arcturus  glows  more  brilliantly  than  monarchs'  blazing  gem, 
And  fair  Corona  sits  enshrined,  like  angels'  diadem. 

My  loved  and  lone  piazza !  the  dear  ones  have  departed, 

And  each  their  nightly  pillow  seek,  the  young  and  happy-hearted ; 

I  linger  still,  a  solemn  hush  is  brooding  o'er  the  skies, 

A  solemn  hush  upon  the  earth  in  tender  silence  lies. 

I  feel  as  if  a  spirit-wing  came  near  and  brushed  my  heart, 
And  bade,  before  I  yield  to  sleep,  earth's  heavy  cares  depart ; 
Father,  in  all  simplicity,  I  breathe  the  prayer  I  love, 
0  watch  around  my  slumbering  form,  or  take  my  soul  above ! 


CAROLINE    HOWARD. 

Mrs.  Caroline  Howard  Glover,  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Oil- 
man, was  born  and  educated  in  Charleston,  S.  C.  Married  at 
the  age  of  seventeen,  she  was  left  a  widow  at  twenty-three,  and 
has  since  resided  with  her  three  orphan  children  at  the  home  of 
her  parents. 

Gracefully  veiling  herself  with  the  maiden  name  of  her 
mother,  she  contributed  many  choice  poems  and  tales  to  the 
leading  magazines  of  the  South,  and  has  been,  to  children 
especially,  a  sweet  interpreter  of  poetry  and  romance. 

Mrs.  Glover  is  best  known,  however,  as  the  author  of 
"  Vernon  Grove,  or  Hearts  as  they  Are,"  a  novel  of  extensive 
circulation,  published  in  1858  by  Messrs.  Rudd  &  Carleton. 
This  work  appeared  first  as  a  serial  in  the  columns  of  the 
"  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  and  was  brought  out  in  book 
form  without  the  name  of  the  author  ;  but  its  skillful  construc- 
tion, the  grace  of  its  style,  and  its  artistic  and  analytic  power, 
soon  attracted  attention,  and  called  out  the  most  favorable 
notices  from  the  press. 

We  clip  the  following  from  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly  "  of 
January,  1859,  as  an  assurance  that,  though  tried -by  the  highest 
critical  standard  of  New  England,  "  Vernon  Grove  "  has  not 
been  found  wanting. 

This  volume  makes  a  pleasant  addition  to  the  light  reading  of  the  day. 
It  is  the  more  welcome  as  coming  from  a  new  field  ;  for  we  believe  that  the 
veil  of  secrecy  with  regard  to  its  authorship  has  been  so  far  blown  aside, 


CAROLINE    HOW  A  UD.  69 

that  we  shall  be  permitted  to  say  that,  although  it  is  written  by  a  lady  of 
New  England  birth,  it  may  be  most  properly  claimed  as  a  part  of  the  litera- 
ture of  South  Carolina.  It  is  a  regular  novel,  although  a  short  one.  It  is  an 
interesting  story,  of  marked,  but  not  improbable  incidents,  involving  a  very 
few  well-distinguished  characters,  who  fall  into  situations  to  display  which 
requires  nice  analysis  of  the  mind  and  heart — developed  in  graceful  and 
flowing  narrative,  enlivened  by  natural  and  spirited  conversation. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  book  is  one  of  refined  taste  and  high  culture.  The 
people  in  it,  with  scarce  an  exception,  are  people  who  mean  to  be  good,  and 
who  are  handsome,  polite,  accomplished  and  rich,  or,  at  least,  surrounded  by 
the  conveniences  and  even  luxuries  of  life.  It  is  a  story,  too,  for  the  most 
part,  of  cultivated  enjoyment.  There  are  sufferings  and  sorrows  depicted  in 
it,  it  is  true;  without  them  it  would  be  no  representation  of  real  life,  which 
it  does  not  fail  to  be.  Some  tears  will  undoubtedly  be  shed  over  it,  but  the 
sufferings  and  sorrows  are  such  that  we  feel  they  are,  after  all,  leading  to 
happiness ;  and  we  are  not  made  to  dwell  upon  pictures  of  unnecessary 
misery  or  unavailing  misfortune.  Let  it  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  we 
are  speaking  of  a  namby-pamby  tale  of  the  luxuries  and  successes  of  what  is 
called  "  high  life,"  for  this  book  has  nothing  of  that  character.  We  mean 
only  to  point  out,  as  far  as  we  may  without  entering  upon  the  story  itself, 
that  it  tells  of  pleasant  people,  in  pleasant  circumstances,  among  whom  it  is 
a  pleasure  to  the  reader  for  a  time  to  be.  Many  a  novel  "  ends  well "  that 
keeps  us  in  a  shudder  or  "  worry  "  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  Here  we 
see  the  enjoyment  as  we  go  along.  Indeed,  a  leading  characteristic  of 
"  Vernon  Grove  "  is  the  extremely  good  taste  with  which  it  is  conceived  and 
written  ;  and  so  we  no  more  meet  with  offensive  descriptions  of  vulgar  show 
and  luxury  than  we  do  with  those  of  squalor  or  moral  turpitude. 

It  is  a  book  marked  by  a  high  tone  of  moral  and  religious  as  well  as 
artistic  and  esthetic  culture.  Without  being  made  the  vehicle  of  any  set 
theories  in  philosophy  or  art,  without  (so  far  as  we  know)  "inculcating"  any 
special  moral  axiom,  it  embodies  much  good  teaching  and  suggestions  with 
regard  to  music  and  painting,  and  many  worthy  lessons  for  the  mind  and 
heart.  This  is  done  as  it  should  be,  by  the  apparently  natural  development 
of  the  story  itself.  For,  as  we  have  said,  the  book  is  really  a  novel,  and  will 
be  read  as  a  novel  should  be,  for  the  story— and  not,  in  the  first  instance  and 
with  deliberation,  with  the  critical  desire  to  find  out  what  lessons  it  teaches, 
or  what  sentiments  it  inspires. 

The  narrative  covers  a  space  of  several  years,  but  it  is  so  told  that  we 


70  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

are  furnished  with  details  rather  than  generalities ;  and  particular  scenes, 
events,  and  conversations  are  set  forth  vividly  and  minutely.  The  descrip- 
tions of  natural  scenery,  and  of  works  of  art,  many  of  which  come  naturally 
into  the  story,  show  a  cultivated  and  observant  eye,  and  a  command  of 
judicious  language.  The  characters  are  well  developed,  and  with  an  unim- 
portant exception,  there  is  nothing  introduced  into  the  hook  that  is  not 
necessary  to  the  completion  of  the  story.  "  Vernon  Grove  "  will  commend 
itself  to  all  readers  who  like  works  of  fiction  that  are  lively  and  healthy  too ; 
and  will  give  its  author  high  rank  among  the  lady  novelists  of  our  day  and 
country. 

ADVENTURE    IN   THE   CAVE. 

When  Sybil  turned  from  her  examination  of  the  crystals  she  found  that 
the  party  had  gone,  but  feeling  no  difficulty  about  following  them,  turned 
into  the  nearest  chamber  which  she  observed,  supposing  it  to  be  the  only 
one  besides  that  by  which  she  had  entered,  and  pursued  its  winding  course 
for  some  distance.  At  length,  being  a  little  anxious  about  not  having  over- 
taken them,  she  called  several  times  but  with  no  response,  until  a  thought  of 
terror  came  to  her,  blanching  her  face  and  causing  her  limbs  to  tremble, — 
the  thought  of  being  lost — and  she  quickened  her  pace,  not  knowing  that 
each  step  led  her  further  from  her  friends. 

At  last  the  truth  burst  upon  her  that  she  was  indeed  alone  and  for- 
saken in  that  terrible  place,  so  full  of  unseen  perils.  The  moment  was 
a  fearful  one  in  which  she  realized  her  situation ;  she  shouted  in  agony 
for  help,  she  called  upon  Vernon  until  her  voice  grew  hoarse  and  only 
whispered  vainly  his  name  ;  her  eyes  peered  into  the  darkness  until  they 
were  blood-shot  with  the  straining;  a  cold  chill  crept  over  her;  her  voice 
grew  fainter  in  its  hoarse  whispers  and  perfectly  unmanageable ;  her  limbs 
were  faint.  Pausing  awhile  to  reflect  upon  her  situation,  a  vision  of  the 
poor  lost  guide,  of  whom  she  had  heard,  came  to  her  memory,  and  she 
determined  that  she  would  remain  stationary,  hoping  that  some  one  would 
compassionately  follow  her  to  the  apartment  where  she  was ;  it  was  better 
to  do  that,  she  thought,  than  to  rush  on  into  some  unseen  peril.  Still  the 
remembrance  of  the  lost  guide  would  not  depart  from  her ;  perhaps  even 
now  she  might  be  treading  upon  his  bones,  and  with  that  sickening  thought 
she  raised  her  lantern  to  see  if  the  place  were  at  all  familiar  to  her,  and 
to  assure  herself  that  at  least  no  unsightly  skeleton  kept  her  company;    but 


CAROLINE    HOWARD.  71 

moving  one  step  further  on,  her  foot  struck  upon  some  nnseen  obstacle, 
throwing  her  down  upon  the  ground,  while  her  lantern  was  rudely  forced 
from  her  hand  hy  the  shock ;  the  light  flickered  more  brightly  for  a  moment, 
and  then  was  entirely  extinguished,  leaving  her  upon  the  cold  slimy  ground 
in  utter  darkness.  Groping  about,  she  raised  herself  from  her  prostrate 
attitude,  and  leaning  against  a  broken  stalagmite  formation,  gave  herself  up 
to  retrospection  and  prayer. 

As  in  the  case  of  a  person  who  is  about  to  be  drowned,  a  panorama  of 
his  whole  life  is  presented  in  an  instant  of  time,  so  did  Sybil  Gray  conjure 
up  all  the  past  scenes  of  her  life,  and  all  whom  in  her  short  career  she.  had 
ever  known.  First  she  thought  of  her  grandmother,  who  had  been  alike 
father  and  mother  to  her,  lying  at  home  lonely  and  ill,  with  no  tender  hands 
of  grandchild  or  relation  to  arrange  her  pillows  or  smooth  down  her  scant 
grey  locks;  then  of  Isabel,  so  kind  and  yet  so  changeable,  sometimes  treating 
her  as  a  companion,  and  then  as  a  child  or  plaything;  of  Vernon  and  his 
helpless  blindness,  of  his  devotion  to  her  through  the  long  years  of  the  past 
— what  could  he,  what  would  he  do  without  her?  Then  Florence's  superb 
eyes  flashed  upon  her  in  the  darkness,  and  she  thought  of  her ;  would  she 
guide  and  guard  him  when  they  had  relinquished  all  hope  of  finding  her,  and 
would  he  call  her  his  ray  of  light  in  the  darkness,  and  would  they  become 
reconciled  and  love  each  other  as  they  once  did  ?  Then  the  perfect  happi- 
ness of  the  young  bride  and  bridegroom  came  to  her  mind,  and  she  mur- 
mured to  herself  how  sweet  it  must  be  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  and  to  have 
one  in  the  wide  world  who  would  be  glad  to  hear  every  thought  as  it  came 
unstudied  from  the  mind,  and  to  sit  with  clasped  hands,  as  they  did,  feeling 
sure  that  they  were  dear  to  each  other.  Then  at  length  her  vivid  imagina- 
tion wandered  to  Europe,  that  world  of  wonders,  where  Albert  Linwood 
painted  those  beautiful  angel-like  heads.  She  wondered  what  Tie  would  say 
when  he  heard  that  little  Sybil  Grey's  bones  were  moldering  in  the  silence 
of  that  fearful  cave. 

The  humblest  person,  the  minutest  thing  in  her  eventful  life,  were  all 
remembered,  until  at  last  the  memory  turned  upon  herself,  and  her  soul 
melted  in  pity  for  that  poor,  beating,  fluttering  heart  of  hers,  and  tears 
chased  each  other  silently  down  her  cheeks,  while  her  hands  clasped  her 
throat,  as  if  to  repress  the  choking  sensation  which  seemed  to  deprive  her  of 
breath. 

"  They  will  search  for  me  and  will  not  find  me,"  she  sobbed  ;  "  I  shall 
crow  faint,  and  hungry,  and  tired  here,  and,  like  others,  shall  wander  about 


72  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

and  never  be  heard  of  more;  some  treacherous  stream  will  ingulf  me,  or  I 
shall  starve,  day  by  day,  until  I  die  a  horrible  death." 

Then  pity,  self-pity,  turned  to  madness,  and  she  clasped  her  delicate 
hands  together  wildly,  and  beat  her  head  against  the  senseless  rock ;  then 
extending  her  hands,  as  if  to  ward  off  some  demon,  which  in  her  madness 
she  had  conjured  up,  thinking  that  with  hungry  eyes  it  approached  her,  she 
uttered  a  despairing  shriek,  and  struck  them  against  a  bard  substance  near, 
when  a  roll,  like  the  heavy  tone  of  a  deep  bass  drum,  a  sort  of  knell  to 
departing  hope,  sounded,  and  sent  new  terror  into  her  soul.  She  did  not 
know  then  that  there  was  a  room  within  the  cave  called  the  Drum  Room, 
which  was  so  named  from  a  thin  stalactite  partition  extending  from  the  ceil- 
ing to  the  tloor,  and  which  emits,  by  even  a  gentle  tap,  a  tone  like  distant 
thunder.  Had  she  known  this,  she  might  have  kept  her  consciousness,  and 
even  through  her  madness  have  bad  returning  gleams  of  reason  ;  but  the 
poor  girl  only  read  in  its  sepulchral,  unearthly  tone,  a  confirmation  of  her 
terrible  fate,  a  sort  of  "  Amen "  to  the  shriek  with  which  she  filled  the 
cavern,  and  she  rose  to  fly,  anywhere,  anywhere,  on,  on,  even  if  it  proved  to 
her  certain  death,  which  would  be  preferable  to  that  cruel,  prolonged,  suffer- 
ing life.  But  she  was  not  equal  to  the  effort ;  her  strength  suddenly  forsook 
her,  and  she  fell  with  a  pitiful  moan  upon  the  ground,  insensible,  with 
scarcely  a  sign  of  life  about  her  save  in  the  faint  fluttering  of  her  heart. 

At  peace  at  last,  because  unconscious!  Unconscious  of  the  darkness, 
the  horror,  the  damp  cold  rock  which  yiillowed  her  head ;  oblivious  to 
memory,  to  cheating  hope,  to  life  itself.  It  was  a  peace  like  that  one  some- 
times hopes  to  find  in  the  silent  grave  when  weary  of  the  jar,  the  tears,  the 
trials,  the  sorrows  of  existence.  The  storm  had  done  its  worst;  sail,  and 
mast,  and  pennon,  had  been  torn  away  from  the  graceful  bark  in  the  struggle 
with  the  elements,  till  at  last  it  had  sunk  fathoms  deep,  out  of  reach  of 
storm  or  wind,  resting  peacefully  at  length  amid  the  coral  shores. 

Poor  driven  bark,  poor  crazed,  helpless,  unconscious  Sybil!  And  it  was 
thus  that  the  kind  guide  found  her,  but  no  effort  of  his  could  rouse  her  from 
her  death-like  stupor.  He  was  a  powerful  man,  used  to  fatigue  and  exer- 
tion of  every  kind,  and  though  his  outward  bearing  was  rough,  he  had  the 
heart  of  a  woman,  and  he  gazed  upon  the  poor  child  somewhat  as  a  mother 
would  look  upon  a  helpless  infant,  blessing  her  sweet  white  face,  and  feeling 
a  joy,  in  rescuing  her,  that  he  had  not  known  in  his  monotonous  life  for 
years.  Then  he  stooped,  and  lifting  her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  tenderly 
back  to  her  friends,  talking  to  her  all  the  while  in  comforting  words  as  though 


CAROLINE    HOWARD.  73 

she  heard  and  understood  him,  bidding  her  to  be  patient,  for  she  would  soon 
be  with  them  again,  asking  her  if  her  drooping  form  lay  easily  upon  his 
strong  muscular  arm,  and  changing  her  position  several  times  for  fear  that 
she  might  be  wearied. 

It  was  well  that  Vernon's  eyes  were  closed  to  the  touching  sight  as  they 
entered ;  it  would  have  been  too  sad  a  spectacle  for  one  who  loved  her  so 
tenderly.  Long  before  they  entered,  the  word  "Found!"  uttered  by  the 
guide  in  a  voice  which  could  be  heard  at  some  distance,  sent  a  thrill  to  his 
heart  that  he  never  forgot,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  persuasions  of  the 
rest  of  the  party,  he  would  have  rushed  forward  to  meet  her,  but  they 
reminded  him  of  the  guide's  express  injunctions  and  the  danger  of  intricate 
passages,  and  he  consented  at  last  to  wait,  though  each  succeeding  moment 
seemed  to  swell  to  an  hour's  duration. 

At  length  they  entered,  her  slight  form  borne  on  the  stalwart  arm  of  the 
guide,  while  with  his  free  hand  he  held  his  lantern  aloft  so  that  the  light 
struck  immediately  upon  her  pallid  face.  Her  position  was  so  helpless  that 
it  was  hard  to  distinguish  it  from  death,  for  her  head  was  inclined  backward, 
and  her  long  fair  hair  had  escaped  from  its  fastening  and  was  trailing  on  the 
ground,  while  her  arms  fell  in  that  drooping  position  which  the  limbs  of  the 
lifeless  always  have  before  they  become  stiffened  with  cold.  It  was  to  the 
bystanders  indeed  death,  though  without  its  ungraceful  rigidity. 

"Is  she  dead!"  asked  Isabel  inadvertently,  as  they  entered,  and  the 
group  gathered  round  the  guide,  anxious  to  know  every  particular  from 
his  lips. 

"Oh,  my  God,  not  dead!"  was  all  that  Vernon  could  say,  "she  cannot, 
she  must  not  die;"  while  he  pressed  his  hands  tightly  over  his  blinded 
eyes,  as  if  to  invoke  sight  therefrom,  that  he  might  assure  himself  of  her 
real  condition. 

"  Oh  no,  not  dead  ;  at  least  not  just  yet,"  said  the  guide  compassionately, 
and  yet  fearing  to  raise  Vernon's  hopes  too  much,  "but  she  is  in  a  swoon  so 
deep  that  we  cannot  hope  for  her  recovery  (if  she  ever  wakes)  for  some 
hours.  In  the  meantime,  we  must  hurry  onward,  and  as  you,  Mr.  Vernon, 
require  no  lantern  and  have  both  arms  free,  strong  arms  upon  which  to 
cradle  the  poor  child,  you  must  carry  her  as  carefully  as  you  can,  while  John 
will  guide  yon  ;  but  remember  it  is  a  long  way  and  a  weary  one,  and  if  you 
find  that  your  burden  becomes  too  heavy  for  you,  I  will  take  her  awile  again 
until  you  get  rested." 

She  was  transferred  to  Vernon's  arms  in   silence,  as  though  they  were 


74  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

watching  a  corpse.  All  looked  upon  that  beautiful  still  face  with  sympa- 
thetic pity,  and  many  of  the  eyes  there  were  filled  with  tears;  some  over- 
flowed, but  Florence's  were  tearless,  and  a  fire  flashed  from  them  as  she  saw 
that  gentle  head  pillowed  on  Vernon's  breast,  and  the  procession,  so  full  of 
enjoyment  in  the  morning,  passed  in  solemn  silence  along,  while  all  unheeded 
were  the  varied  forms  of  beauty  that  lined  their  path. 

And  what  were  "Vernon's  emotions  as  his  arms  enfolded  that  beloved 
form?  Grow  weary  of  her?  Ask  assistance  from  any  one,  though  the  way 
were  twice,  aye,  thrice  as  long?  Ah,  no;  it  was  too  sweet  a  burden  that  he 
bore.  She  seemed  but  a  feather  in  his  arms,  as  he  held  her  there,  heart  to  heart, 
with  her  unbound  hair  waving  at  times  upon  his  very  lips;  and  as  thus  he 
walked  from  the  darkness  into  the  light  of  day  without,  a  vision  seemed  to  come 
to  him  as  he  held  her  there,  false  perchance,  but  still  blessed  because  it 
included  her.  The  cave  appeared  to  him  as  earth,  and  its  devious  perplexed 
ways,  and  the  sunlight  without,  the  opening  heaven — then  a  wild  blissful 
thought  entered  his  heart,  cheating  him  with  its  brilliant  coloring,  that  even 
thus  one  day  might  he  hope  to  enter  heaven. 

Often  in  tenderest  accents  he  whispered  her  name,  but  the  still  lips  gave 
no  answer;  then  imagining  that  her  swoon  was  truly  death,  he  placed  his 
hand  upon  her  heart,  reassured  by  its  feeble  fluttering  that  life  was  yet  there. 
Often,  too,  his  soul  was  torn  with  cruel  fancies,  and  he  feared  that  from  that 
corpse-like  repose  she  might  suddenly  wake  to  madness,  and  his  footsteps 
quickened  to  reach  the  outer  world,  and  to  know  the  worst. 

At  last  they  gained  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  and  the  fresh  breezes  of 
heaven  brought  something  like  consciousness  to  the  insensible  girl.  Open- 
ing her  eyes  for  a  moment,  she  looked  vacantly  around,  and  sighed ;  then  a 
faint  smile  played  around  her  lips,  and  she  nestled  more  closely  to  Vernon's 
breast. 

"  Thank  God !"  said  Vernon,  fervently,  as  he  heard  that  life-like  sigh. 

His  voice  seemed  to  arrest  her  attention,  though  she  appeared  to  try  in 
vain  to  unclose  her  eyes  again,  and  her  lips  moved  as  though  she  were 
dreaming,  while  a  few  whispered  words  which  Vernon's  quick  ear  heard, 
made  his  heart  throb  wildly  while  she  spoke. 

"  Oh,  it  was  a  terrible  dream,"  the  white  lips  murmured,  "but  it  is  over 
now ;  the  longed-for  peace  has  come  at  last." 

"  Sybil,  d.arest,  my  own  beloved,"  whispered  Vernon,  forgetting  all  his 
noble  plans  of  concealment,  "  God  is  good ;  He  did  not,  he  will  not  take  you 
from  me;"  but  the  impassioned  words  were  all  unheard,  she  only,  like  a 


CAROLINE    HOWARD.  75 

tired  child,  drew  closer  to  his  bosom,  not  even  knowing  where  her  head  was 
pillowed,  and  soon  Vernon  heard  her  breathing  in  the  calm  sleep  which 
betokens  life  and  health. 

At  this  a  new  joy  and  strength  rose  in  Ins  soul,  and  he  felt  there  was 
still  something  bright  in  life — Sybil  would  live — then  he  yielded  to  the 
guide's  remonstrances,  and  gave  her  up  to  the  care  of  his  wife,  who  laid  her 
upon  her  own  pleasant  couch,  and  used  restoratives  which  completely 
aroused  her  to  consciousness.  Then  Sybil  begged  to  be  taken  home,  and 
when  told  that  she  was  too  much  exhausted  for  the  drive,  with  almost 
childish  petulance  she  prayed  to  be  carried  to  her  own  room,  knowing  in  its 
familiar  precincts,  with  her  books  around  her,  the  soft  landscape  without, 
and  Linwood's  calm  picture  of  Evening  within,  that  she  would  soon  be 
restored.  So  they  yielded  to  her  entreaties,  and  entering  their  carriages 
with  the  blessing  of  the  kind  guide  and  his  wife,  who  had  reason,  from  the 
tangible  reward  which  Vernon  left  them,  to  remember  the  day,  they  were 
soon  on  their  way  to  Vernon  Grove. 

Sybil  and  Vernon  were  alone;  he  could  not  yield  her  to  the  care  of 
another  while  she  was  still  so  weak  and  helpless,  and  when  he  found  that 
she  was  unable  to  sit  up,  he  drew  her  head  upon  his  bosom  and  she  rested 
gratefully  there.  She  smiled  her  thanks,  too  prostrated  in  mind  and  body 
to  utter  many  words,  but  remembering  that  she  could  not  see  such  an 
acknowledgment,  said  with  earnest  simplicity,  "  Now  I  Tcnow  your  worth, 
my  kind  brother;   what  should  I  do  without  your  friendly  support?" 

Vernon  shuddered,  but  it  was  thus  that  he  had  taught  her  to  address 
him.  Words  of  passionate  affection  quivered  on  his  lips,  but  even  had  he 
dared  break  his  vow,  that  was  no  time  or  place,  when  lying  there  still  trem- 
bling and  frightened,  to  tell  her  that  the  heart,  near  which  she  nestled,  was 
beating,  wildly  beating,  with  anything  but  a  brother's  love  for  her  who 
rested  there. 

Home  being  reached,  Sybil  insisted  upon  visiting  her  grandmother's  room, 
but  rinding  her  well  cared  for,  and  still  in  that  imbecile,  childish  state  in  which 
she  had  left  her,  gave  herself  up  into  the  kind  housekeeper's  care,  who 
brought  her  some  simple  nourishment  and  insisted  upon  her  retiring  at  once 
to  her  own  room.  There,  after  a  fervent  prayer  to  God  for  her  deliver- 
ance, and  an  upward  look  at  her  favorite  picture,  which  she  had  remembered 
so  faithfully  and  well,  together  with  a  thought  if  he  who  painted  it  had 
ever  dreamed  while  he  was  executing  it  of  the  calming  power  it  would 
possess,  she  fell  into  a  slumber  like  an  infant's,  as  profound  and  as  innocent. 


76 


WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


Vernon's  inward  struggle  was  too  strong  for  sleep.  "She  calls  me  only 
what  I  taught  her,"  said  he  Utterly,  in  the  loneliness  of  the  night,  "  but  that 
word  brother,  though  so  tenderly  uttered,  chilled  me  through  and  through. 
Ah  never  can  I  he  to  her  anything  but  that,  for  have  I  not  vowed  it?  And 
besides,  she  regards  me  only  as  such,  and  any  knowledge  of  my  love  for  her 
might  annoy  and  disgust  her,  bereaving  me  even  of  a  sister's  affection." 
Then  he  made  renewed  vows  of  concealment,  praying  fervently  that  God 
would  make  him  content  that  she  should  be  the  guardian  angel  of  his 
life. 

It  is  a  mad  thing  for  a  man  to  enter  the  lists  against  such  a  mighty  power 
as  Love,  who  even  with  folded  or  clipped  wings  can  scale  the  heavens,  or 
break  through  walls  of  adamant ;  and  it  was  a  new  discipline  for  Vernon  to 
guard  himself  against  the  thousand  ways  in  which  his  heart  was  assailed  by 
the  tempter,  where  inclination  invited  its  approach,  and  principle  forbade  it. 
It  was  a  life  struggle  in  which  strength  was  opposed  to  an  almost  equal 
strength ;  but  with  Sybil's  welfare  on  his  side,  Vernon  hoped  eventually  for 
victory. 

SPRING-TIME. 

God  of  the  hours,  God  of  these  golden  hours  ! 

My  heart  o'erflows  with  love 
To  Thee,  who  giv'st  with  liberal  hand  these  flowers; 
To  Thee,  who  sendest  cool,  delicious  showers 

Fresh  from  the  founts  above. 

God  of  the  hours,  the  fleeting,  checkered  time, 

When  nature  smiles  and  weeps, 
Thou  paintest  sunset  clouds  with  hues  sublime, 
Thou  tunest  bird-notes  to  the  joyous  chime 

That  all  creation  keeps. 


Pale  emerald  trees,  how  gracefully  ye  twine 

Around  your  boughs  a  wreath ; 
Or  does  some  angel  hand,  with  touch  divine, 
Bring  from  celestial  bowers  your  verdure  fine 
To  deck  the  bowers  beneath  ? 


CAROLINE    HOWARD.  n 

How  silently  your  leaflets,  old  and  brown, 

On  undulating  wings, 
In  autumn  months,  came  floating,  floating  down, 
To  form  a  carpet  as  they  formed  a  crown 

For  you,  ye  forest  kings  ! 

Well  may  ye  bend  with  proud  and  haughty  sweep, 

For  sunbeams  love  to  lie 
Upon  your  boughs  ;  the  breeze  ye  captive  keep, 
And  even  the  dewdrops,  which  the  night-clouds  weep, 

Upon  your  leaflets  die. 

Last  eve  the  moon  on  modest  twilight  beamed, 

And  told  the  stars  "twas  Spring ! 
She  swept  the  wave,  deliciously  it  gleamed, 
She  touched  the  birds,  and  woke  them  as  they  dreamed 

A  few  soft  notes  to  sing. 

God  of  the  April  flowers,  how  large  thy  gift — 

The  rainbow  of  the  skies 
That  spans  the  changing  clouds  with  footsteps  swift, 
And  "rainbows  of  the  earth,"  that  meekly  lift 

To  Thee,  their  glorious  eyes. 

And  not  content  with  flowers  rich  and  fair, 

Thou  givest  perfume,  too, 
That  loads  with  burden  sweet  the  tender  air, 
And  comes  to  fill  the  heart  with  rapture  rare, 

Each  blushing  morn  anew. 

God  of  the  Spring-time  hours,  what  give  we  TTiee, 

"While  thus  Thou  bounteous  art  ? 
Thou  owest  us  naught,  we  owe  Thee  all  we  see — 
Enjoyments,  hope,  thought,  health,  eternity, 

The  life-beat  of  each  heart. 


7g  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

This  morn  came  birds,  on  pinions  bright  and  fleet, 

A  lullaby  to  sing 
To  Winter  as  he  slept— but  other  voices  sweet 
The  low  dirge  drowned,  and  warbled  carol,  meet 

To  greet  the  waking  Spring. 

Thus  trees,  and  birds,  and  buds,  and  skies  conspire 

To  speak  unto  the  heart, 
"  Renew  thy  strength  ;  be  fresh  ;  be  pure ;  desire 
To  be  new-touched  with  purifying  fire, 

That  Evil's  growth  depart." 

God  of  the  heavens !  from  our  bosoms  blow 

he  sin-leaves,  and  plant  flowers 
Bedewed  by  gentlest  rains,  that  they  may  show, 
How  tended  by  thy  love  alone  they  grow, 
God  of  these  golden  hours ! 


TO  A  BELOVED  VOICE. 

Speak  it  once  more,  once  more,  in  accents  soft, 

Let  the  delicious  music  reach  mine  ear  ; 
Tell  me  in  murmured  accents  oft  and  oft, 
That  I  am  dear. 


Teach  me  the  spell  that  clings  around  a  word, 

Teach  to  my  lips  the  melody  of  thine, 
And  let  the  spoken  name  most  often  heard 
Be  mine,  be  mine. 

Why  in  the  still  and  dreamy  twilight  hour, 

When  lone  and  tender  musings  fill  the  breast, 
Why  does  thy  voice  with  its  peculiar-power 
Still  mv  unrest  ? 


CAROLINE    HOWARD.  79 

Why  does  the  memory  of  thy  faintest  tone 
In  the  deep  midnight  come  upon  my  soul, 
And  cheer  the  parting  hours,  so  sad  and  lone, 
As  on  they  roll  ? 

Oh,  if  my  passions  overflow  their  bound, 

Or  pride,  or  hate,  or  anger  call  for  blame, 
Do  thou,  with  earnest,  mild,  rebuking  sound, 
But  breathe  my  name : 

But  show  the  better  way  by  thee  approved, 

Bid  me  control  my  erring  wayward  will 
And  at  the  chiding  of  thy  voice  beloved, 
All  shall  he  still. 


ANNA  CORA  MOWATT   RITCHIE. 

Lives  cradled  in  luxury  are  rarely  heroic.  Now  and  then 
we  find  one,  favored  by  nature  and  fortune,  who  is  large 
of  heart,  strong  in  mental  resources,  and  daring  enough  to  do 
the  work  revealed,  though  the  lines  fall  in  rough  places,  and 
the  end  is  not  clear.  Among  these  exceptions  it  is  pleasant  to 
record  the  name  of  Anna  Cora  Mowatt  Ritchie. 

Striking  boldly  out,  when  the  call  came,  into  an  untried 
field — braving  the  opposition  of  friends,  and  the  perils  of  a 
profession  then  under  the  ban  of  church  and  society — she  not 
only  achieved  a  brilliant  career,  but  so  preserved  the  attributes 
vt'  the  true  woman,  as  to  exalt  her  vocation.  Presenting  to  the 
world  the  twofold  aspect  of  actor  and  author,  she  distinguished 
herself  in  each  character,  redeemed  her  fortunes,  and  provided 
for  the  necessities  of  those  dependent  upon  her.  Her  name  is 
given  worthily  to  fame. 

Samuel  Gouverneur  Ogden,  the  father  of  Mrs.  Ritchie,  for 
years  a  merchant  of  high  standing  in  New  York,  was  a  leading 
spirit  in  the  expedition  under  General  Miranda,  which,  though 
unsuccessful,  opened  the  way  to  South  American  independence. 
The  losses  consequent  upon  the  failure  of  this  expedition  made 
it  necessary  for  him  to  remove  to  France,  where  he  remained 
ten  years.  He  had  married  the  grand-daughter  of  Francis 
Lewis,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 
At  the  birth  of  his  daughter,  Anna  Cora  Ogden,  the  family 
were  livino-  at  Bordeaux ;  but  a  few  months  after  found  them 

60 


/ 


.     '<*> ■}". 


^L^^zz, 


I        ■ 


A  N  N  A    C  0  R  A    HOWATT    RITCHIE.  81 

domiciled  at  La  Castagne — a  fine  old  country  seat,  two  miles 
from  Bordeaux — a  retreat,  it  would  seem,  of  almost  paradisiacal 
grace  and  beauty. 

The  children  of  this  family,  at  that  time  eleven  in  number, 
appear  very  early  to  have  given  indications  of  marked  histrionic 
talent ;  yet  neither  father  nor  mother  were  theatrically  inclined. 
nor  could  they  trace  the  proclivity  in  either  line  of  ancestry. 
Private  plays  were  much  in  favor  with  the  elder  sons  and 
daughters,  and  at  the  extraordinary  age  of  four  years,  Anna 
makes  her  debut  in  the  somewhat  extraordinary  character  of 
judge  in  the  trial  scene  of  "  Othello."  Imagine  the  baby 
debutante  sitting  upon  a  high  bench,  in  red  gown  and  white 
wig,  making  the  wise  eyes  and  mouth  of  an  august  presence. 
It  was  the  first  faint  whisper  of  destiny. 

In  her  eighth  year,  on  the  17th  September,  the  family, 
consisting  of  the  father  and  mother,  seven  daughters  and  three 
sons,  embarked  from  Bordeaux,  in  the  ship  Brandt,  for  New 
York.  The  voyage  proved  a  most  disastrous  one.  On  the  3<>th 
they  encountered  a  terrific  gale :  two  of  the  younger  brothers 
were  swept  into  the  sea,  and  one  was  lost.  The  storm  continued 
for  forty-eight  hours,  the  vessel  barely  escaping  total  wreck. 
After  a  few  repairs,  they  put  back  for  Havre,  and  on  the  15th 
of  October,  again  set  sail,  in  the  packet  ship  Queen  Mab, 
arriving  at  New  York  on  the  24th  November,  1826.  But  the 
children  carry  La  Castagne  in  their  hearts,  and  the  brick  walls 
of  Gotham  oppress  them.  They  cannot  speak  English,  the 
American  children  are  but  dull  pantomimists,  and  then- 
thoughts  go  out  longingly  after  the  frisking,  mercurial  play- 
mates they  have  left  behind. 

Anna  and  her  sister  are  now  placed  in  a  New  York  board- 
ing school,  where  the  former  makes  her  second  appearance  upon 
a  mimic  stage,  and  wins  her  first  laurels.  Unable  to  attend 
school  with  regularity,  on  account  of  delicate  health,  she  made 

6 


82  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

amends  by  reading  at  home  whatever  came  in  her  way;  like 
Charles  Lamb's  "Bridget  Elia."  "browsing  at  will  upon  the 
fair  and  wholesome  pasturage  of  good  old  English  reading," 
with  which  her  father's  library  was  packed.  Even  at  this  age, 
she  had  read  Shakspeare's  plays  many  times  over. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen,  she  proposed  to  her  sisters  that  they 
should  enact  a  real  play  in  honor  of  their  father's  birth-day. 
Voltaire's  "  Alzire "  is  selected,  and  suitable  costumes  are 
provided  by  the  proprietor  of  the  Park  Theatre.  The  fair 
manager  manages  the  whole  thing,  as  if  to  the  manner  born, 
and  achieves  her  first  triumph  as  an  artiste,  by  merging  herself 
in  the  Alzire  she  personates.  So,  step  by  step,  with  no  dim 
foreshadowing  of  the  career  of  the  woman,  the  child  climbs  the 
first  rounds  in  the  ladder  of  its  accomplishment. 

At  this  time  Anna  made  the  acquaintance  of  James  Mowatt, 
a  young  lawyer  of  wealth  and  culture.  He  evidently  saw  in  the 
bright,  handsome,  self-asserting  school-girl  the  promise  of  rare 
development,  and  made  haste  to  establish  the  right  to  bend  the 
twig  as  he  would  have  the  tree  incline.  Anna  seems  to  have  felt 
a  girlish  pride  in  her  man-of-the-world  lover,  who  met  her,  each 
day,  on  her  way  to  school,  carried  her  books  and  slate,  directed 
her  studies,  and  rewarded  application  with  munificent  gifts  of 
books  and  flowers ;  but  she  was  entirely  unprepared  for  a 
serious  proposal  of  marriage.  AVhat  did  she,  a  child  of  four- 
teen summers,  know  of  love — of  the  responsibilities  and  sanc- 
tities of  wifehood?  Her  own  account  of  this  phase  of  her  life 
is  most  piquant  and  significant.*  But  Mr.  Mowatt  was  not  to 
be  denied.  Persevering  importunity  prevailed,  and  before  the 
age  of  fifteen,  Anna  was  a  betrothed  bride ;  her  father  consent- 
ing, upon  the  very  proper  conditions,  that  the  union  should  be 
deferred  two  years,  and  Mr.  Mowatt  privileged  to  visit  his 
1  ride  elect  as  often  as  any  other  gentleman. 

*  See  Autobiography,  p  45. 


ANN*  A    CUR  A    MO  WATT    RITCHIE.  83 

In  the  meantime  Anna  was  to  enter  society;  in  view  of 
which  event,  Mr.  Mowatt  naturally  grew  nervous,  and  deter- 
mined, if  possible,  to  forestall  the  dreaded  ordeal  by  a  secret 
marriage.  For  six  months  Anna  was  inexorable ;  then,  through 
her  heart  of  pity  the  child-woman  relented,  and  the  promise 
was  given;  within  a  week  she  would  become  his  wife.  One 
sister  was  taken  into  confidence,  and  the  marriage  was  per- 
formed by  the  French  clergyman  of  the  city.  The  usual 
indignation-storm  and  reconciliation-calm  followed  in  regular 
order.  A  few  days  passed  in  the  old  home,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Mowatt  removed  to  Flatbush,  Long  Island,  where  the 
former  had  piirchased  a  fine  old  mansion,  once  owned  by 
General  Giles;  a  great,  rambling  castle  of  a  place,  shut  in  by 
stately  trees,  with  dark  vaults  and  secret  chambers,  bounteous 
in  ghostly  legends  and  historic  interest.  Then  there  were  broad 
acres,  made  up  of  gardens  and  orchards,  abounding  with 
fruits — smiling  with  flowers.  They  called  the  place  Melrose, 
and  Anna  forgot  to  sigh  for  La  Castagne. 

Duly  installed  mistress  and  queen  of  this  baronial  estate, 
she  gathered  about  her  a  whole  army  of  pets ;  scoured  the 
country  on  her  Arabian  mare  ;  trundled  hoops  with  her  sister 
May;  wrote  poetry;  gave  entertainments,  varied  with  music, 
dramatic  performances,  and  tableaux  vivants,  and  pursued  her 
studies.  Not  so  bad  a  beginning,  after  all,  for  the  gleesome 
"  child-wife."  She  began  to  think  the  "  cares  of  married  life  " 
were  only  a  myth,  invented  to  keep  precocious  children  in  their 
proper  sphere. 

When  in  her  eighteenth  year,  her  health,  always  delicate, 
beginning  perceptibly  to  fail,  a  sea  voyage  was  recommended. 
Her  sister  had  recently  married  a  German  gentleman  of  wealth 
and  position,  and  it  was  arranged  that  Anna  and  a  favorite 
aunt  should  accompany*  them  to  Europe.  The  voyage  was 
made   in   three  weeks,   with  most   benignant   effect    upon    the 


84  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

invalid,  and  in  a  fortnight  she  had  visited  London  and  Ham- 
burg, and  settled  in  a  temporary  home  among  the  relatives  of 
her  brother-in-law  in  Bremen. 

That  she  might  become  thoroughly  initiated  into  the  mys- 
teries of  German  life  and  language,  Mrs.  Mowatt  hired  a  fur- 
nished house,  and  commenced  housekeeping  on  the  German 
system.  Determined,  indefatigable,  she  was  soon  able  to  read 
Goethe  and  Schiller  with  ease. 

While  thus  occupied,  Mr.  Mowatt  arrived,  and  was  soon 
after  stricken  with  partial  blindness,  which  confined  him  for 
four  months  to  a  darkened  room.  In  hope  of  relief,  they  then 
went  to  Paris,  where  the  case  was  so  successfully  treated  by  an 
American  surgeon,  that,  in  a  fortnight,  Mi-.  Mowatt  was  able  to 
distinguish  print.  Then  came  to  Mrs.  Mowatt  the  joyous  reac- 
tion. Emerging  from  the  darkened  room,  she,  too,  for  the  first 
time,  opened  "  wide  eyes  of  sweet  wonder  "  upon  Paris.  The 
whirl,  the  buoyancy,  the  delicious  abandon  of  Parisian  life, 
came  to  her  languid  body  and  weary  spirit  like  sunbeams  and 
fresh  air  to  the  pale  house-plant.  General  Cass  was  then  the 
American  minister  at  Paris,  and,  witli  his  pleasant  family,  con- 
tributed not  a  little  to  her  enjoyment. 

In  the  meantime,  she  did  not  lose  sight  of  her  favorite  pur- 
suits. Every  morning,  before  breakfast,  came  the  Italian 
teacher,  and,  in  snatches  of  time  during  the  day,  she  not  only 
wrote  elaborate  articles  for  American  periodicals,  but  designed 
and  commenced  a  drama  in  six  acts,  to  be  represented  by  herself 
and  sisters  at  a  fete  given  on  her  return  to  America  and  Mel- 
rose. This  drama  she  called  "  Galzara,  or  the  Persian  Slave." 
The  play  was  afterward  brought  out  successfully  before  a  select 
audience  at  Melrose ;  it  was  also  published  in  the  "  New  World," 
and  noticed  favorably  by  the  press. 

With  a  heart  enlarged,  and  perceptions  cpiickened  by  her 
experience  abroad,  the  young  wife  is  once  more  at  home,  sport- 


AXNA    CORA    MO  WATT    RITCHIE.  §5 

ing  among  her  flowers  and  pets,  and  realizing  the  charm  of  her 
surroundings  with  a  new  sense.  She  is  nineteen  now  ;  in  the 
first  blush  of  womanhood,  her  mind  poised  and  her  spirit  reso- 
lute :  more  than  half  conscious  of  strength  in  reserve  for  some- 
thing unforeseen  and  strange — and  it  comes. 

Through  Mr.  Mowatt's  infirmity  of  sight,  he  became 
incapable  of  the  business  of  his  profession,  and  reluctantly 
abandoned  it.  Othello's  occupation  gone,  a  natural  fondness 
for  speculation  grew  into  a  mania  with  him,  and,  soon  after 
their  return  to  America,  his  ample  fortune  was  swept  suddenly 
away.  In  one  month  Melrose  must  be  sold.  They  must  begin 
life  anew,  this  disabled  husband  and  young  wife — and  how  ? 

Very  tenderly  were  these  tidings  unfolded  to  Anna,  but  her 
dream  was  broken.  Alone,  in  the  bower  built  for  her  in  the 
first  butterfly  phase  of  her  married  life,  she  went  down  into 
herself,  and  sat  in  solemn  conclave  with  the  present,  the  future, 
her  own  good  gifts,  and  new-born  thoughts.  It  was  the  crisis 
of  her  Hfe,  and  she  came  out  of  it  full-grown,  with  a  purpose. 
She  was  possessed  of  a  full,  rich,  contralto  voice ;  she  would  give 
dramatic  readings,  like  Mr.  Yandenhoff,  and  redeem  her  home. 

Mr.  Mowatt's  consent  gained,  the  way  was  open.  "With  the 
audacity  of  conscious  ability,  she  allowed  one  fortnight  for 
preparation,  and  then  put  herself  to  the  work  with  all  her  native 
energy.  Silencing  objections  with  wise  eloquence,  and  inspiring 
those  about  her  with  the  glow  of  her  own  dauntlessness,  she 
made  selections  from  her  favorite  poets,  recited  aloud,  each  day, 
in  the  open  air,  and  laid  the  necessary  plans  to  appear  before  a 
public  auditory.  Boston  had  been  called  the  American  Athens. 
She  would  be  judged  first  by  the  highest  standard  of  intellectual 
taste,  and  secure  a  just,  critical  judgment.  Our  sometime  pet 
and  hoop-trundler  grows  apace  into  the  grave  philosopher. 

Through  valuable  letters  of  introduction,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mowatt  were  favorably  presented  to  the  fastidious  Athenians, 
and,  with  the  additional  prestige  of  high-toned  personality,  Mrs. 


86  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Mowatt  was  soon  at  home  among  them.  A  series  of  readings 
was  given  at  the  Masonic  Temple  under  the  brightest  auspices. 
The  fine  sensibilities  of  the  woman  quivered  in  the  ordeal,  but 
the  motive  power  was  stronger  and  deeper  than  these,  and  her 
debut,  before  a  large  and  select  audience,  was,  in  every  sense,  a 
triumph. 

Leaving  Boston,  she  gave  one  night's  recitation  iu  Provi- 
dence, and  then  announced  a  course  of  readings  at  the  Stuyve- 
sant  Institute  of  New  York.  She  had  now  to  come  before 
friends  and  acquaintances,  many  of  whom  were  disposed  to 
ostracize  her  for  the  heroism  which  they  could  not  understand, 
and  so  did  not  credit.  She  missed  the  magnetic,  sympathetic 
quality  of  her  Boston  auditories,  but,  strong  in  the  right,  rose 
out  of  the  ungenial  sphere  and  achieved  her  usual  success. 

But  the  excitement  of  an  experience  so  new,  as  well  as  the 
chilling  demeanor  of  some  on  whose  friendship  she  relied, 
wrought  painfully,  at  last,  upon  her  sensitive  system  ;  after 
appearing  once  before  the  Rutgers'  Institute,  and  giving  a  short 
course  to  the  Society  Library  of  New  York,  she  was  attacked 
with  fever  and  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs,  and  for  many  months 
held  life  by  the  slightest  tenure. 

During  this  illness,  she  for  the  first  time  became  acquainted 
with  the  phenomenon  of  mesmeric  somnambulism,  and  declares 
herself  indebted  to  its  agency,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  for 
her  life.  The  experiences  which  she  has  given  to  the  world  on 
this  head,  together  with  her  own  sound,  sensible  philosophy 
concerning  them,  are  worthy  of  careful  consideration. 

Not  regaining  sufficient  strength  to  avail  herself  of  one  good 
gift,  she  turned  resolutely  to  another.  Forced  by  their  fallen 
fortunes  to  occupy  the  most  lucrative  ground,  she  compiled 
books,  and 

"  Wrote  for  cyclopedias,  magazines, 


And  weekly  papers,  holding  up  her  name 
To  keep  it  from  the  mud." 


AXXA    CORA    MOWATT     RITCHIE.  87 

Mr.  Mowatt,  encouraged  by  the  ready  sales  of  her  books  on 
knitting,  netting,  cookery,  and  etiquette,  then  embarked  in  the 
publishing  business,  hoping  thus  to  secure  to  Mrs.  Mowatt  the 
entire  profits  of  her  toil,  as  well  as  to  occupy  her  in  a  larger  and 
more  congenial  field.  Under  these  auspices  she  prepared 
abridgments  of  the  lives  of  Goethe  and  Madame  d'Arblay  ;  but 
the  people  preferred  etiquette  and  cookery  to  biography,  and 
amiably  persistent  in  a  good  cause,  she  turned  again  to  the  most 
profitable.  About  this  time,  in  intervals  of  leisure,  she  wrote 
"  Evelyn,"  a  tale  of  domestic  life,  in  two  volumes.  The  manu- 
script, at  the  suggestion  of  an  English  friend,  was  sent  to  Lon- 
don for  publication  ;  but,  on  hearing  from  the  modest  London 
publisher  that  he  would  bring  out  the  book  if  she  would  be 
good  enough  to  raise  her  dead  heroine  and  carry  her  through 
another  volume,  she  transferred  it  to  an  American  house,  more 
regardful  of  quality  than  quantity. 

It  was  at  this  stage  of  her  life,  and  not,  as  some  have  sup- 
posed, in  her  days  of  affluent  ease,  that  Mrs.  Mowatt  took  in 
charge  the  three  orphan  children,  whom  she  afterward  reared 
and  educated ;  an  act  which  the  recording  angel  has  written 
the  crowning  grace  of  her  life. 

"  Evelyn,"  successfully  launched,  was  soon  followed  by 
"  Fashion,"  a  spirited  comedy,  which  was  promptly  accepted, 
and  brought  out  with  unusual  magnificence  at  the  Park 
Theatre.  Mrs.  Mowatt  "  awoke  one  morning  and  found  her- 
self famous,"  the  success  of  her  play  having  placed  her  at  once 
in  the  public  eye,  and  challenged  the  especial  consideration  of 
Utteratewrs  and  managers.  From  the  latter  she  began  now  to 
receive  the  most  advantageous  proposals  to  go  upon  the  stage. 
As  if  to  leave  her  no  alternative,  Mr.  Mowatt's  publishing 
house,  at  this  juncture,  disastrously  failed.  Conspiracy  of 
events  most  marked  and  unmistakable!  AVith  a  calm  careful- 
ness she  reviews  her  life,  and  finds  that  the  Divine  hand  alone 


88  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

could  have  led  her  to  the  brink  of  this  consummation.  Assured 
of  this,  the  right  path  fully  indicated,  with  the  consent  of  her 
husband  and  father,  she  would  walk  in  it.  She  had  lost  none 
of  her  womanly  sensibilities,  but  she  had  learned  to  ensphere 
them  within  a  conscientious  purpose. 

With  her  usual  promptitude,  she  set  apart  three  weeks  for 
preparation,  and  then,  as  Pauline,  in  the  "  Lady  of  Lyons," 
made  her  debut  at  the  Park  Theatre,  and  became  at  once  a 
star.  Proposals  for  engagements  now  crowded  upon  her  from 
all  parts  of  the  Union.  She  made  the  tour  of  the  United 
States,  and  in  one  year  achieved  a  series  of  two  hundred 
successes.  The  way  was  not  all  smooth  and  flowery ;  her 
feet  climbed  many  a  Hill  Difficulty,  and  pressed  many  a 
thorn,  but  she  remembered  that  she  had  entered  the  profes- 
sion with  a  higher  aim  than  mere  amusement,  and  pushed 
steadily  on. 

The  experience  of  the  second  year  was  like  that  of  the  first ; 
a  persistent  routine  of  study  and  discipline,  a  tour  through  the 
United  States,  and  a  succession  of  engagements  and  triumphs. 
At  the  close  of  this  year,  Mr.  Mowatt  sailed  for  Europe,  to 
prepare  the  way  for  her  professional  appearance  in  England, 
and  Mrs.  Mowatt  withdrew  for  a  brief  season  to  her  father's 
house,  of  which  it  is  said  she  was  ever  the  brightest  orna- 
ment. Here,  amid  the  gay  criticisms  of  a  bevy  of  gifted 
sisters,  who  had  come  from  near  and  far  to  welcome  her,  she 
wrote  "  Armand,"  a  drama  in  five  acts,  pledged,  before  its 
commencement,  to  the  manager  of  the  Park  Theatre.  This 
play  was  produced  in  the  autumn  of  1847,  after  the  return  of 
Mr.  Mowatt,  Mr.  Davenport  and  herself  personating  the  prin- 
cipal characters,  and  proved  every  way  a  worthy  successor  of 
its  honored  sister,  "  Fashion." 

On  the  1st  of  November,  1847,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mowatt,  in 
company  with  Mr.  Davenport,  sailed  from  Boston  for  Europe ; 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITC-HIE.  89 

and  after  tossing  for  fifteen  days  in  a  succession  of  gales, 
arrived  at  Liverpool,  quite  worn  out  with  illness  and  anxiety. 

Mrs.  Mowatt  was  now  to  encounter  a  new  trial.  Her 
husband  had  arranged,  by  the  judicious  advice  of  Mr. 
Macready,  that  she  should  make  her  debut  in  some  of  the  Eng- 
lish provinces,  in  order  to  appear  before  a  London  audience 
fully  accredited  by  English  critics.  The  Theatre  Royal,  at 
Manchester,  had  been  selected,  and  the  7th  of  December  was 
the  day  appointed.  English  and  American  critics  are  of 
different  brotherhoods ;  those  of  Manchester,  in  a  high  degree, 
astute  and  hypercritical,  merciless  sifters  of  transatlantic  pre- 
tension. But  failure  was  a  word  unknown  in  Mrs.  Mowatt's 
vocabulary ;  with  her  faithful  and  accomplished  coadjutor,  Mr. 
Davenport,  she  met  the  test  fearlessly,  and  brought  down  the 
phlegmatic  English  house  in  spite  of  itself. 

After  appearing  every  night  for  two  weeks,  she  received 
and  accepted  a  proposal  for  an  engagement  at  the  Princesses' 
Theatre,  of  London.  The  slow  fire  of  Manchester  criticism 
was,  after  all,  only  an  earnest  of  the  white  heat  of  her  London 
experience.  At  the  first  rehearsal,  she  was  received  by  the 
"  stars  "  of  the  company  with  unqualified  disdain,  and  listened 
with  the  best  grace  she  could  command,  while  they  dictated 
the  proper  situations  of  the  play,  until  patience,  at  last  grow- 
ing weary,  she  proved  herself  a  worthy  descendant  of  her 
illustrious  grandsires,  by  turning  the  tables  upon  her  British 
persecutors,  in  a  most  adroit  and  effective  "Declaration  of 
Independence." 

Again,  despite  the  frigid  atmosphere  of  her  audience,  the 
sneers  of  "  London  assurance,"  the  petty  manceuverings  of  Lon- 
don rivals,  and  the  horrors  of  "stage  fright,"'  her  debut  was  a 
triumph,  to  which  the  London  press  lazily  awoke  and  paid 
tribute. 

A  six  weeks'  course  at  this  theatre  was  followed  by  one  of 


90  WOMEN'    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

still  greater  length  at  the  Olympic,  and  a  succession  of  engage- 
ments at  the  Marylebone,  which  left  Mrs.  Mowatt  a  fixed 
"  star"  in  the  royal  firmament  of  the  latter.  Here  "  Armand  " 
was  first  given  to  the  dramatic  and  literary  world  of  London. 
It  was  enacted  twenty-one  nights,  winning  for  the  artist-author 
a  double  weight  of  golden  opinions,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
season,  the  more  substantial  offering  of  an  exquisite  silver  vase, 
lined  with  gold,  surmounted  by  a  statuette  of  Shakspeare,  and 
inscribed  "  To  Anna  Cora  Mowatt,  for  her  services  to  the  drama, 
as  authoress  and  actress,  and  as  a  record  that  worth  and  genius 
from  every  land  will  ever  be  honored  in  England." 

An  engagement  for  a  second  season  at  the  Marylebone  and 
Olympic  had  been  completed  with  great  satisfaction  to  all 
parties,  when  Mr.  Mowatt  was  again  stricken  with  serious 
illness  and  threatened  with  entire  loss  of  sight.  Hoping  by 
change  of  climate  to  effect  a  speedy  cure,  he  set  sail  at  once  for 
Trinidad.  It  was  impossible  for  Mrs.  Mowatt  to  accompany 
him.  Through  the  fulfillment  of  her  engagements  alone  could 
she  meet  their  many  responsibilities,  not  least  among  them  the 
outfit  of  the  invalid  ;  and  with  a  brave  heart  she  still  pressed  on 
in  the  path  marked  out. 

A  third  season  engagement  was  entered  into  at  the  Olympic. 
"  Fashion  "  and  "  Armand  "  were  re-produced  and  re-stamped 
with  cordial  English  favor;  but  with  every  steamer  from  Trinidad, 
tidings  of  the  invalid  grew  sadder  ;  intelligence  of  a  painful 
character  reached  her  from  America;  and  when,  at  last,  the 
lessee  and  manager  of  the  Olympic,  a  man  high  in  the  esteem 
of  the  public,  was  arrested  for  embezzlement,  the  theatre  closed 
and  the  company  dispersed,  her  cup  ran  over ;  she  was  attacked 
with  brain  fever  and  lay  for  months  in  a  state  of  unconscious- 
ness. When  she  atoofce,  her  head  had  been  shorn  of  its  wealth 
of  tresses  ;  the  winter  had  passed  ;  Mr.  Mowatt  had  recovered 
sufficiently   to    return,    wasted    and   pallid,    to   England ;    the 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCHIE.  91 

manager  had  been  convicted  and  sentenced,  and,  crazed  with 
the  shock,  had  loosed  his  own  life.  All  seemed,  indeed,  like  a 
fitful  dream. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Mowatt  could  endure  the  fatigue  of  the 
journey,  the  two  invalids  removed  to  Malvern.  Their  cottage 
was  only  a  stone's  throw  from  the  famous  water-cure  establish- 
ment of  that  place,  and  they  passed  the  summer  in  the  pursuit 
of  health.  Mr.  Mowatt  then,  for  the  first  time,  revealed  the 
startling  fact  that  the  fruits  of  Mrs.  Mowatt's  toil  had  been 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  ill-starred  manager,  and  that  all  was 
lost.  There  was  no  time  to  linger ;  she  must  gird  her  delicate 
strength  anew,  and  go  forth  to  provide  for  their  necessities. 

The  most  advantageous  offer  for  an  engagement  which  she 
had  received,  and  which  Mr.  Mowatt  was  bent  on  her  accepting, 
was  from  Dublin ;  urged  by  him  she  nerved  herself  for  the 
trial,  and,  leaving  the  now  partially  restored,  and  really 
cheerful  invalid  in  charge  of  his  faithful  nurse  and  physician, 
with  a  worthy  woman  in  attendance,  she  turned  her  face 
Dublinward. 

A  brilliant  debut  followed,  and  the  usual  series  of  successes 
filled  the  engagement.  Mrs.  Mowatt  was  then  making  prepa- 
rations to  return  to  London,  when  the  news  came  that  Mr. 
Mowatt  was  no  more.  No  ueed,  now,  to  catch  the  trick  of 
sorrow — to  put  on  grief  like  a  robe — to  weep  well — to  moan 
effectively  ;  the  tragedy  is  real— and  dumb.  He  had  died  like 
one  falling  asleep,  with  her  pet  name,  "  Lily,"  upon  his  lips, 
and  a  serene  trust  in  his  heart. 

( >n  the  9th  of  July,  1851,  Mrs.  Mowatt,  accompanied  by  her 
brother-in-law,  embarked  for  America,  arriving  at  New  York 
on  the  night  of  the  22d  instant.  Two  golden  weeks  were 
passed  in  the  bosom  of  her  family,  and  she  then  appointed  a 
time  when  she  would  take  leave  of  the  stage ;  resolving,  mean- 
while, tn  perfect  herself  in  her  art,  and  retire  in  the  very  zenith 


92  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

of  artistic  success.  In  pursuance  of  this  plan,  she  commenced 
an  engagement  at  Xiblo's,  and  began  to  apply  herself  vigor- 
ously to  the  study  of  her  profession ;  spending  several  hours  each 
day  in  dramatic  reading,  and  testing  each  night  the  measure 
and  quality  of  her  advance,  by  its  effect  upon  her  audience. 
This  engagement  was  followed  by  a  professional  tour  through 
the  Union,  marked  by  successes  which  were  crowned  most 
fittingly  by  a  complimentary  benefit,  proffered  by  the  leading 
men  of  Boston.  To  be  told  by  such  persons  as  Geo.  S. 
Ilillard,  Henry  W.  Longfellow,  E.  P.  Whipple,  Epes  Sargent, 
and  others : 

"  You  have  not  bought  these  honors  with  the  price  of 
better  things ;  you  have  moved  with  simple  dignity  along  the 
slippery  paths  of  praise  and  success.  When  we  have  seen  you 
embodying  your  own  conceptions  of  tenderness  and  truth,  we 
have  felt  that  the  charm  of  your  performance  flowed  from  the 
fact  that  your  words  and  your  voice  were  but  imperfect 
expressions  of  yourself:" — to  be  told  this  by  such  men  was  no 
common  tribute. 

Her  star  was  steadily  nearing  the  desired  point,  when  Mrs. 
Mowatt  fell  seriously  ill,  and  was  conveyed  to  her  father's 
house  at  Ravenswood,  L.  I.,  where,  during  the  long  months  of 
professional  inactivity  which  followed,  she  wrote  the  "Auto- 
biography," to  which  the  world  is  indebted  for  its  deepest  and 
truest  knowledge  of  her  twofold  life.  "  Truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction."  The  book  has  all  the  charm  of  a  romance,  while  on 
every  page  we  feel  the  strong  leaps  of  a  human  heart.  It  is  a 
live  lesson  of  moral  courage  and  persistency  sent  home  witli 
many  a  sparkling  ion  mot  and  shining  tear. 

In  the  winter  of  1853,  Mrs.  Mowatt  entered  upon  her  fare- 
well engagements.  The  clarion  call  of  duty  had  been  answered. 
In  nine  years  of  loyal  service,  the  special  objects  of  her  mission 
had  been    accomplished.      She   had   redeemed   that   sweetest 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCHIE.  93 

privilege  of  competence — the  power  to  minister  unto  the  "  shorn 
lambs  "  within  and  without  her  fold.  She  had  retained  her 
womanly  graces,  and  magnified  her  office  ;  proving  to  the  world 
that  the  true  woman  creates  everywhere  an  inviolable  sphere. 
By  close  application  to  her  art,  and  careful  discipline  of  her 
powers,  she  had  come  to  sway  the  hearts  of  the  people  at  will ; 
and  now,  in  her  highest  "  dignities,"  it  was  meet  and  right  that 
the  "  green  curtain  "  of  private  life  should  fall  before  her. 

Her  farewell  series  were  worthy  of  the  career  they  crowned  ; 
the  grand  jmale  at  Niblo's,  New  York,  on  the  2d  of  June,  1854, 
exceeding  in  enthusiasm  and  brilliancy  all  the  triumphs  of  the 
past. 

But  while  the  life  of  the  artiste  was  thus  ending  amid  pomps 
and  acclamations,  the  life  of  the  woman  was  quietly  beginning 
anew.  Five  days  after  Mrs.  Mowatt's  last  appearance  upon  the 
sta"-e,  she  eave  her  fair  hand  and  wealth  of  laurels — her  heart 
had  gone  before — into  the  keeping  of  William  Foushee  Ritchie, 
of  Richmond,  Va.,  the  editor  of  the  ''Richmond  Enquirer;" 
"  a  rare  compound,"  as  one  has  said,*  "  of  ability  and  amia- 
bility." The  same  graceful  writer  says  of  Mrs.  Ritchie  and  her 
new  surroundings :  "  She  lives,  as  a  poet  should,  in  a  cottage 
orne,  a  little  distance  from  the  city.  I  could  have  selected  her 
house  from  a  thousand  as  easily  as  I  could  the  fair  occupant 
anion"-  a  multitude  of  women.  There  were  flowers  before  the 
door,  flowers  on  the  lawn,  a  flowery  taste  manifest  in  the  dispo- 
sition of  the  window  drapery;  a  pleasant,  affectionate,  riant 
expression  radiating  from  all  around,  fitly  preluding  the  holy 
harmony  of  a  happy  home.  "Within,  the  entourage  was  more 
exquisite  still.  Books,  pictures,  statuettes,  and  all  the  every- 
day, yet  elegant  appliances  of  household  life,  completed  the 
ideal  '  poetry  of  home.'  " 

*  See  "  Belle  Brittan  on  a  Tour." 


94  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

In  1S55,  Mrs.  Ritchie  gave  to  the  world  the  volume,  "Mimic 
Life,"  a  series  of  tales  and  pictures  of  the  stage,  which  hold  the 
reader  with  their  breathing  verity.  This  was  followed,  in  1S57, 
by  "  Twin  Roses,"  a  story  also  of  stage  life — a  sweet,  sad  narra- 
tive, dipped  in  the  tenderest  poetry  of  the  writer's  soul.  Mrs. 
Kitehie  is  yet  true  to  her  "mission,"  and  aims  to  give  in  her 

i ks   faithful  revelations   of  theatrical  life,  about  which   the 

world,  seeing  it,  at  best,  through  a  glass  darkly,  was  getting 
very  dark  fancies. 

The  stirring  public  life  of  Mrs.  Mowatt  does  not  seem  at  all 
to  affect  the  serene,  private  life  of  Mrs.  Kitehie.  Into  its  ambi- 
ent atmosphere  of  love  and  beauty,  there  stealeth,  apparently, 
no  longing  for  the  old  whirl  and  eireumstauee  of  the  stage. 
The  centre  of  a  gifted  and  refined  circle,  in  communication  with 
many  of  the  leading  minds  of  the  age — Vice-Regent  of  the 
Mount  Vernon  Association  for  Virginia,  her  life  is  still  crowded. 
The  power  of  concentration  is  remarkable  in  Mrs.  Ritchie.  At 
present,  the  purchase  and  improvement  of  Mount  Vernon  is  the 
all-absorbing  thought  with  her,  ami  every  energy  is  pushed  to 
this  consummation. 

Of  her  success  as  a  dramatist,  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that 
"  Fashion  "  and  "  Armand  "  have  kept  the  stage  persistently, 
the  first  for  sixteen,  the  last  for  fourteen  years.  Her  poetic 
faculty  should  be  gauged  by  passages — full  of  poetic  fire  and 
beauty — in  "  Armand,"  rather  than  by  her  fugitive  poems, 
though  many  of  these  do  her  great  credit. 

With  the  exception  of  her  characteristic  sketches,  contributed 
weekly  to  the  "  New  York  Ledger,"  she  finds  time,  just  now, 
for  no  literary  labor,  every  hour  being  occupied  with  home 
duties,  correspondence,  and  the  various  claims  of  Mount  Ver- 
non. 

[Since  this  was  written,  a  great  sorrow  has  come  upon  Mrs. 
Ritchie,  in  the  death  of  her  father.     On  the  5th  of  April,  I860,' 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCHIE.  95 

after  an  illness  of  twelve  clays,  during  the  agonies  of  which  he 
beautifully  demonstrated  the  power  of  a  Christian  faith,  Mr. 
Ogden  passed,  in  the  eighty-first  year  of  his  age,  to  another 
sphere.  Bound  to  him  by  a  love  that  was  more  than  filial,  for 
ten  days  and  nights  this  daughter,  the  pride  and  joy  of  his  long 
life,  kept  faithful  vigil  by  his  bedside,  and  when  he  "  fell  asleep, 
it  was  calmly  and  gently,  like  a  trusting  child,  in  her  arms.] 


MESMERIC    SOMNAMBULISM. 

I  was  annoyed  at  being  told  that  I  had  spoken,  done,  or  written  that  of 
which  I  had  no  recollection.  Numerous  poems  were  placed  in  my  hands, 
which,  I  was  informed,  I  had  improvised  as  rapidly  as  they  could  betaken 
down,  the  subjects  having  been  given  hap-hazard  by  any  person  present. 
It  was  no  particular  gratification  to  be  assured  that  I  had  never  produced 
anything  as  good  before.  Nor  was  it  any  consolation  to  be  told  that  in 
sleep-waking  I  was  far  more  sensible,  more  interesting,  and  more  amiable 
than  in  my  ordinary  state.  With  womanly  perverseness,  I  preferred  my 
every-day  imperfection  to  this  mysterious  and  incomprehensibly-brought- 
about  superiority.  For  the  former  I  was,  at  least,  responsible  ;  to  the  latter 
I  could  lay  no  conscious  claim. 

I  say  conscious  claim,  though  it  may  be  admitted  that  there  may  be 
separate  states  of  consciousness.  In  the  phenomena  of  this  separation,  the 
student  of  human  nature  may,  I  believe,  find  the  clue  to  momentous  truths. 
The  essential  facts  in  ordinary  somnambulism  will  not  be  denied  except 
by  those  awfully  rigorous  inquirers  who  will  accept  nothing  which  they 
cannot  weigh,  gauge,  and  handle,  and  who  are  quite  as  likely  to  be  de- 
ceived as  the  most  credulous,  inasmuch  as  the  skepticism  which  admits 
too  little  is  as  liable  to  mistake  as  the  marvellous  propensity  which  admits 
too  much.  But  if  pretenders  to  science  will  not  grant  it,  common  expe- 
rience and  common  sense  will,  that  a  person  in  somnambulism  may  hold 
long  and  rational  conversations,  and  perform  acts,  of  which  he  will  have 
no  recollection  in  his  waking  state.  Let  him  again  pass,  however,  into 
somnambulism,  and  he  can  recall  everything  that  he  ever  experienced  iu 
that  state. 

It  would  seem  from  this  common  and  undeniable  phenomenon,  as  if  there 


96  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

were  an  inner  consciousness  occupying  a  higher  plane  than  the  external,  and 
commanding  a  more  extensive  prospect,  a  consciousness  undeveloped  in  most 
minds  except  by  flashes,  and  retiring  within  itself  before  the  external  can 
distinctly  realize  its  presence. 

How  shall  we  account  for  the  thick  veil  of  separation,  dropped  at  once 
by  the  cessation  of  somnambulism  (whether  independent  or  induced  by  mes- 
merism) between  the  normal  and  abnormal,  the  external  and  internal  con- 
sciousness? An  analogy  drawn  from  intoxication  or  insanity  is  not  quite 
applicable  here;  for  under  somnambulism,  one  may  be  as  calm  and  rational, 
and  as  completely  in  possession  of  all  his  faculties,  as  ever  in  a  waking  state ; 
nay,  those  faculties  may  be  considerably  quickened  and  exalted.  And  yet  a 
wave  of  the  mesmerizer's  hand  will  bring  the  subject  back  from  the  higher 
to  the  lower  every-day  consciousness  where  all  that  he  has  been  saying  and 
doing  in  his  somnambulic  state  is  an  utter  blank !  Another  wave  of  the 
hand,  or  an  access  of  natural  somnambulism,  intirely  independent  of  mes- 
merism, and  lo!  all  the  knowledge  of  the  former  state  is  restored,  as  if  a 
curtain  had  been  lifted. 

On  one  point  I  felt  a  degree  of  satisfaction,  though  perhaps  it  was  only  a 
proof  of  my  natural  obstinacy.  They  told  me  that  I  was  what  is  called  an 
independent  somnambulist,  and  that  I  could,  at  any  time,  defeat  the  will  of 
the  mesmerizer,  unless  I  chose  to  submit.  It  was  also  told  me  that  my 
reasoning  faculties  were  singularly  developed  under  somnambulism,  and 
that  I  often  maintained  opinions  at  variance  with  those  of  the  mesmerizer, 
and  others  with  whom  I  was  in  communication,  especially  on  religious  sub- 
jects. These  opinions  I  could  not  be  forced  to  relinquish  by  arguments,  or 
even  through  the  exertion  of  a  superior  will. 


AN  OLD  MAID. 

An  old  maid !  Was  there  ever  woman  so  wise  that  she  could  hear  the 
obnoxious  title  applied  to  herself  without  a  suppressed  sigh  ?  Though  few 
are  the  old  maids  who  might  not  have  been  wives  if  they  had  so  willed,  the 
sense  of  incompleteness — of  undeveloped  capacities — of  unfulfilled  duties, 
perforce  will  cause  a  passing  pang. 

But  who  that  knows  Miriam  Pleasance  feels  that  the  life  of  an  old  maid 
is  necessarily  dreary,  profitless,  colorless  ?  And  is  Miriam  an  old  maid  ? 
Damsels  in  the  primrose-season  of  youth,  for  whom  the  wedding  ring  binds 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCHIE.  07 

in  its  charmed  circle  the  manifold  joys  of  an  ideal  elysium,  mockingly  call 
her  s<> ;  happy  mothers  ahout  whose  necks  twine  the  chubby  arms  of  cherub 
childhood,  keeping  "low  and  wise"  the  "vines  that  bear  such  fruit,"  pity- 
ingly call  her  so ;  broken-hearted  wives,  whose  shattered  idols  prove  all  clay 
and  ashes,  whose  pale  lips,  wreathed  in  smiles,  veil,  with  Spartan  heroism,  the 
vulture  preying  on  their  souls,  indignantly  call  her  so  !  But  mark  how  men- 
intellectual,  thinking,  feeling  men — hesitate  to  apply  the  ungallant  appella- 
tion to  sweet  Miriam.  Perhaps  they  are  tongue-tied  by  that  vague  charm 
about  her  which  half  cheats  one  into  the  belief  that  she  carries  in  her  vestal 
bosom  some  mystical  light  ("the  lamp  of  human  love"),  and  lets  fall  its  radi- 
ance on  the  path  she  treads,  on  the  hearth  where  she  sits,  on  the  face  into  which 
she  gazes.     Certain  it  is  that  all  are  strangely  brightened  by  her  presence. 

Man  recognizes  the  magic  of  a  cheerful  influence  in  women  more  quickly 
and  more  willingly  than  the  potency  of  dazzling  genius — of  commanding 
worth — or  even  of  enslaving  beauty.  Thus  men,  in  general,  value  Miriam's 
especial  gift  above  the  more  brilliant  endowments  of  her  favored  sisters. 

In  stature  Miriam  is  below  the  medium  height.  A  form  not  voluptuously 
rounded  nor  charmingly  fragile,  but  a  neat,  compact  little  figure,  supple  and 
light  of  motion.  Not  a  single  feature  of  her  countenance  can  be  termed 
beautiful,  yet  the  whole  face  possesses  a  mobility — a  capacity  for  rapidly 
varying  expression— an  indefinable  harmony  that  produces  the  effect  of 
beauty.  Her  white  teeth  sparkle  between  flexible  lips— her  black  eyes 
dance  and  shine  through  jetty  fringes— her  dark  hair,  line  but  not  abundant, 
is  knotted  with  peculiar  grace  at  the  back  of  an  admirably  balanced  head. 

Her  dress  is  usually  of  some  neutral  tint — a  silver  grey — a  delicate  fawn 
— or  a  soft  dove  color,  lighted  up  and  relieved  by  the  gleam  of  crimson,  or 
dark  blue,  or  purple  ribbons. 

Then  her  age — she  has  passed  the  season  of  youth— of  summer,  perhaps, 
and  is  verging  upon  autumn.  A  rich,  mellow  autumn— an  autumn  full  of 
gorgeous  tints— an  autumn  whose  forest  leaves  turn  to  scarlet  and  gold 
without  withering— an  autumn  that  makes  one  think  the  spring-time  could 
hardly  have  been  so  beautiful.  True,  the  dewy,  evanescent,  morning  fresh- 
ness is  gone,  but  in  its  place  reigns  the  more  lasting,  self-renewed  freshness 
ot  mental  and  physical  vigor.  In  a  word,  Miriam  lias  reached  and  passed  the 
green  ascent  ot  thirty,  and  is  calmly  descending  the  verdant  slope  beyond. 
But  life  has  been  all  gain  to  her— she  has  gathered  fruits  of  knowledge,  and 
flowers  of  beauty,  and  herbs  of  balm  on  the  way,  and  lost  nothing  she  does 
not  think  it  well  to  part  with  in  exchange. 

7 


98  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

We  have  seldom  met  with  an  old  maid  upon  the  pages  of  whose  early 
history  there  was  not  some  love-talc  inscribed — some  story  of  unrequited 
affection— of  betrayed  hopes — of  love  sacrificed  to  duty — or  of  the  grave's 
untimely  snatching  away.  But  strange  to  say,  there  is  no  love-tale  written 
upon  Miriam's  book  of  life.  She  could  never  have  been  numbered  among 
that  large  class  of  maidens  who,  according  to  Rasselas,  "think  they  are  in 
love,  when  in  fact  they  are  only  idle."  Her  intellect  is  too  highly  cultivated 
— her  penetration  too  acute — her  life  too  active,  for  her  to  form  an  attach- 
ment through  the  mere  "  iesoin  cVaimer,"  the  longing,  though  often  uncon- 
scious, desire  to  be  loved  and  protected,  which  is  the  secret  spring  of  half 
the  so-called  love-matches  in  the  world.  A  young  girl's  affections,  like 
graceful  tendrils  formed  to  cling,  too  often  twine  themselves  around  the 
object  nearest  and  must  inviting,  and  no  other  vindication  save  that  it  was 
near  and  invited. 

"Seeing  that  to  waste  true  love  on  anything 
Is  womanly  past  question." 

But  if  Miriam  unconsciously  admits  that  love  is  a  "grand  necessity"  of 
existence,  she  feels  that  existence  has  other  necessities.  To  bestow  her 
heart,  her  judgment  must  approve  the  gift,  and  she  has  not  encountered  the 
being  (though  doubtless  such  exists)  who  could  win  the  one  with  the 
approval  of  the  other.     This  is  the  sole  secret  of  her  freedom. 

Had  Miriam  been  thrown  upon  her  own  resources  to  gain  a  livelihood, 
her  energy  of  character,  and  her  delight  in  use,  would  have  impelled  her  to 
fill  and  dignify  some  of  the  few  intellectual  avocations  which  woman's  hands 
and  brains  are  allowed  to  grace.  Her  birth  and  wealth  forbid,  yet  the  cur- 
rent of  life,  with  such  an  organization,  can  never  become  stagnant.  Occu- 
pation is  enjoyment.  Her  perceptions  are  keenly  alive  to  discover  the  work 
that  is  spread  for  her  hands,  and  to  do  it  when  found.  She  religiously 
believes  that  there  is  work,  Heaven-allotted,  to  all,  in  the  great  vineyard  of 
the  world,  and  that  our  work  lies  just  within  our  grasp,  if  we  will  but  look 
for  and  recognize  the  task.  "Labor  is  worship!"  says  the  prophet. 
"Labor  is  worship."  responds  every  throbbing  pulse  in  Miriam's  well- 
attuned  frame.  Like  the  woman  of  Bethany  who  poured  the  perfumed  oint- 
ment (her  humble  attribute  of  love)  upon  the  head  of  her  Lord,  she  "did 
what  she  could  !"  What  she  could  ?  What  more  could  lie  required  of  her  ' 
Do  what  we  can — as  much  an  vc  can — all  we  ran  .'  Oh,  how  large  would  be 
the  sum  of  works  of  the  very  humblest,  feeblest,  poorest,  when  counted  up 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCHIE.  99 

in  the  Hereafter,  if  they  only  "did  what  they  could.'"  Alas!  for  the  thou- 
sand opportunities  of  ministering  and  comforting  thrown  daily  in  our  path- 
way, while  we  pass  hy  on  the  other  side  through  sheer  unconcern — through 
"lack  of  thought"  rather  than  "lack  of  heart!"  Will  they  not  rise  up  to 
convict  us  when  we  render  the  account  of  our  stewardship  in  the  great 
day '. 

With  such  thoughts  ever  quickening  her  to  action,  Miriam  takes  a  lively, 
never-failing  interest  in  all  things  around  her.  No  fellow-creature  is  indif- 
ferent to  her.  She  regards  all  with  a  tender  sympathy — a  sympathy  which 
hreaks  unaware  through  cold  conventionalities,  and  fraternizes  with  heings 
too  seldom  recognized  as  memhers  of  the  human  family.  Toward  the  sick, 
the  poor,  the  sad,  the  suffering  in  any  shape,  her  hand  is  unhesitatingly 
stretched  out.  They  need  no  credentials,  save  the  stamp  of  sadness,  sick- 
ness, poverty;  and  prompt  aid  is  true  aid.  She  seems  endowed  with  God's 
special  license  to  console — to  translate  mysterious  sorrows  into  promised 
joys  —  to  strengthen  the  weak  —  to  soften  the  hard  —  to  reconcile  the 
rebellious. 

The  history  of  any  one  day  of  her  life  would  fill  chapters  with  scenes  of 
anguish — of  passion — of  hope — of  happy  consummations,  that  might  adorn 
the  pages  of  a  romance. 

Tims,  Miriam,  "the  old  maid,"  is  not  less  happy,  less  useful — less  beloved 
than  the  wife  and  mother  whose  heart  and  hands  are  full  of  alternate  cares 
and  hlessings.  Those  upon  whose  path  of  life  the  smile  of  Miriam  Pleasance 
shines,  never  after  speak  scornfully  of  an  "old  maid."  ^Ve  entertain  hut  one 
fear  for  Miriam — it  is  that  she  will  not  always  liear  the  vestal  title  around 
which  she  has  woven  such  an  indescribahle  charm. 


WOMAF-FRIENDSHIP. 

All  the  world  gives  ready  credence  to  the  possibility  of  friendship 
between  man  and  man — some  people  are  even  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
immutable  attachment  of  Orestes  and  Py lades,  of  ^Eneas  and  Achates,  may 
he  repeated  among  men  in  these  inconstant  modern  times  ; — but  the  devotion 
of  woman  to  one  of  her  own  sex,  the  sincerity  with  which  she  clasps  the 
hand  or  presses  the  lip  of  woman,  the  genuineness  of  her  self-sacrifices  daily 
made  for  a  beloved  sister,  are  subjects  of  a  vast  amount  of  skepticism. 
Philosophic  writers,   poets,  wits,  have  openly  declared  their  disbelief  in   the 


100  WOMEN'    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

existence  of  the  strange  phenomena  of  woman-friendships.  Even  Dinah 
Muloek,  who  has  written  so  many  lines  of  woman  which  hear  the  impress 
of  truth  and  wisdom — who  has  solved  so  many  of  the  enigmas  inseparable 
from  woman's  nature — gravely  shakes  her  head  when  she  touches  upon 
"  female  friendships,"  and  calls  up  such  a  doubting  host  of  "  it's  "  and  "  buts  " 
to  usher  in  the  possibility  of  perfect  love  between  women,  that  we  inevitably 
draw  the  inference  that  she  sides  with  the  unbelievers. 

On  the  other  hand,  Shakspeare,  that  "intellectual  miracle,"  (as  he  has 
been  called)  whose  seer-like  vision  pierced  deeper  than  the  eyes  of  grosser 
mortals — Shakspeare,  whose  magic  plummet  sounded  the  unreached,  uncom- 
prehended  depths  of  the  human  soul,  reveals  the  hearts  of  women  united  by 
adamantine  links. 

Instance  the  clinging  fondness  of  Helena  and  Ilermia,  in  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  :" 

"We,  Ilermia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 

Have  with  our  needles,  created  both  one  flower 

Eotli  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 

Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key, 

As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices  and  minds, 

Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together, 

Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 

But  yet  a  unison  in  partition, 

Two  lovely  berries  molded  on  one  stem  ; 

So  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart: 

Two  of  the  first  like  coats  in  heraldry. 

Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest." 

We  have  another  illustration  of  woman-friendship,  in  its  consummate 
beauty,  portrayed  in  the  passionate,  protecting  love  of  Beatrice  for  Hero  in 
"  Much  Ado  About  Nothing;"  and  in  "As  You  Like  It,"  a  still  stronger 
picture  in  the  self-renouncing,  absolute  devotion  for  Rosalind  of  the  gentle 
Celia,  who  startles  her  wrathful  father  with  the  declaration : 

"  If  she  be  a  traitor. 


Why,  so  am  I ;  we  still  have  slept  together, 
Hose  at  an  instant,  lcarn'd,  play'd,  eat  together, 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans 
Still  we  went  coupled  and  inseparable  !" 


ANNA    CORA    MOW  ATT    RITCHIE.  101 

When  the  implacable  Duke  banishes  Rosalind,  Oelia  replies : 

"  Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my  liege, 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company." 

Shakspeare  against  the  world !  for  who  knew  the  world  one  half  so  well  ? 

Not  only  are  we  impressed  by  the  conviction  that  his  glowing  portraitures 
of  woman-friendship  are  life-drawn ;  not  only  have  we  perfect  faith  in  the 
possibility  of  a  thoroughly  unselfish,  all-absorbing  attachment  between  two 
women,  but  we  entertain  the  belief  that  there  are  certain  female  minds  so 
constituted  that  a  tender  friendship  with  one  of  the  same  sex  is  positively 
indispensable  to  happiness.  Such  natures  experience  an  irresistible  impulse 
to  confide  in  one  who,  enlightened  by  her  own  yearnings  and  failings,  can 
understand  feminine  wants  and  frailties — who  can  look  upon  feminine  insuf- 
ficiencies, not  from  a  strong,  manly,  but  a  weak,  womanly  point  of  view. 

A  woman  may  be  the  most  irreproachable  of  wives  to  the  best  of 
husbands,  and  yet  feel  a  void  in  her  affections,  a  chamber  in  her  large  heart 
unfilled — a  something  needful  lacking,  if  there  be  no  Celia  into  whose  ear 
she  can  pour  the  history  of  her  joys  and  sorrows — to  whom  she  can  turn  for 
advice,  and  lenient  judgment,  and  comprehending  sympathy. 

There  are  trivial  domestic  difficulties,  petty  annoyances,  perplexing 
positions  with  which  no  woman  of  tact  will  trouble  and  bewilder  her  husband 
by  relating  to  him.  If  he  is  a  man  of  decided  intellect,  he  will  not  attach 
any  importance  to  these  small  crosses,  will  not  even  understand  these 
minor  miseries,  and  the  wife  is  thrown  back  upon  her  own  resources,  vexed 
and  disheartened  by  her  failing  attempt  to  enlist  his  aid  or  sympathy.  If  he 
is  a  man  of  limited  mental  powers,  he  will  be  more  annoyed  than  she,  and 
will  only  increase  her  vexations  without  disentangling  a  single  thread  of  the 
fine  web  of  dilemmas,  into  which  she  is  snared.  But  to  a  sympathetic  female 
companion,  a  woman  may  enter  into  all  the  details  of  these  insignificant 
trials,  and,  clasping  a  friend's  hand,  she  may  search  for  and  discover  the  clue 
that  can  guide  her  out  of  her  domestic  labyrinth. 

The  higher  love — the  love  for  man — neither  absorbs  nor  forbids  the 
lower,  the  friendship  for  woman.  They  are  distinct,  emotional  capacities 
which  may  be  coexistent  in  one  heart.  They  are  evidences  of  rich,  spiritual 
organization.  If  they  dwell  together  in  pristine  purity,  one  affection 
strengthens  rather  than  weakens  the  other. 

Who  can    deny  that  two    women,  through  a   mysterious   affinity,  may 


102  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

become,  and  recognize  each  other  as  sisters  in  heart  ?  Who  can  doubt  that 
there  is  a  bond  of  sisterhood  between  their  spirits,  as  real  and  as  strong  as 
the  tie  of  blood  between  sisters  ?  And  if  this  bo  true,  must  not  that  internal 
kinship  outlive  even  the  dissevering  stroke  of  death,  and  proclaim  them  true 
sisters  in  the  great  hereafter  ?  But  in  this  lower  sphere,  what  name  can  we 
give  to  their  attachment  but  that  of  "  woman-friendship  ?" 


LADY    TEAZLE'S   INOPPORTUNE   NAP. 

As  may  be  readily  imagined,  I  was  often  weary  to  exhaustion,  even 
during  the  performance.  On  one  occasion  my  fatigue  very  nearly  placed  me 
in  a  predicament  as  awkward  to  me  as  it  would  have  been  amusing  to 
the  audience.  We  were  fulfilling  a  long  engagement  at  Niblo's.  I  was 
playing  Lady  Teazle  in  the  "  School  for  Scandal."  When  Lady  Teazle,  at 
the  announcement  of  Sir  Peter,  is  concealed  behind  the  screen  in  Joseph 
Surface's  library,  she  is  compelled  to  remain  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  or  per- 
haps twenty  minutes,  in  this  confinement.  I  was  dreadfully  fatigued,  and 
glad  of  the  opportunity  to  rest.  There  was  no  chair.  At  first  I  knelt  for 
relief.  Becoming  tired  of  that  position,  I  quietly  laid  myself  down,  and, 
regardless  of  Lady  Teazle's  ostrich  plumes,  made  a  pillow  of  my  arms  for 
my  head.  I  listened  to  Placide's  most  humorous  personation  of  Sir  Peter 
for  a  while ;  but  gradually  his  voice  grew  more  and  more  indistinct,  melt- 
ing into  a  soothing  murmur,  and  then  was  heard  no  more.  I  fell  into  a 
profound  sleep.  When  Charles  Surface  is  announced,  Sir  Peter  is  hurried 
by  Joseph  into  the  closet.  Lady  Teazle  (according  to  Sheridan)  peeps  from 
behind  the  screen,  and  intimates  to  Joseph  the  propriety  of  locking  Sir 
Peter  in,  and  proposes  her  own  escape.  At  the  sound  of  Charles  Surface's 
step,  she  steals  behind  the  screen  again.  The  cue  was  given,  but  no  Lady 
Teazle  made  her  appearance.  She  was  slumbering  in  happy  unconscious- 
ness that  theatres  were  ever  instituted. 

Mr.  Jones,  the  prompter,  supposing  that  I  had  forgotten  my  part,  ran 
to  one  of  the  wings  from  which  he  could  obtain  a  view  behind  the  screen. 
To  his  mingled  diversion  and  consternation,  he  beheld  Lady  Teazle  placidly 
sleeping  upon  the  floor.  Of  course,  he  could  not  reach  her  I  have  often 
heard  him  relate  the  frantic  manner  in  which  he  shouted,  in  an  imploring 


ANNA    OORAMOWATT    RITCHIE.  103 

stage  whisper,  "Mrs.  Mowatt,  wake  up!  For  goodness  sake,  wake  up! 
(.'liarle-  Surface  is  just  going  to  pull  the  screen  down!  Wake  up!  You'll 
be  caught  by  the  audience  asleep !  "Wake  up !  Good  gracious,  do  wake 
up!" 

I  have  some  confused  recollection  of  hearing  the  words  "wake  up! 
wake  up  !"  As  I  opened  my  heavy  eyes,  they  fell  upon  Mr.  Jones,  making 
the  most  violent  gesticulations,  waving  about  his  prompt-hook,  and  almost 
dancing  in  the  excitement  of  his  alarm.  The  hand  of  Charles  Surface  was 
already  on  the  screen.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  hardly  remembering  where  I 
was,  and  had  barely  time  to  smooth  down  my  train  when  the  screen  fell. 
A  moment  sooner,  and  how  would  the  slumbering  Lady  Teazle,  suddenly 
awakened,  have  contrived  to  impress  the  audience  with  the  sense  of  her  deep 
contrition  for  her  imprudence .'  how  persuaded  her  husband  that  she  had 
discovered  her  injustice  to  him  during  her  pleasant  nap  ! 


JULIETS    DAGGER. 

During  the  drudgery  of  rehearsal,  the  actor  drops  disenchanted  from  the 
realms  of  cloudland,  where  he  dwelt  with  the  ideal  creations  of  the  poet. 
The  incongruous  elements  that  compose,  the  frigid  atmosphere  that  pervades, 
a  theatre  blind  his  mental  vision.  He  struggles  in  vain  to  catch  the  golden 
rays  that  flooded  his  spirit  in  its  serene  seclusion.  The  prismatic  hues  of 
imagination  fade  into  utter  darkness  before  the  conventionalities  of  his  pro- 
fession. All  the  delicacies  of  his  inspired  conception  suddenly  vanish,  and 
he  stands  with  the  bare,  cold  outline  of  what  he  designed,  before  him,  power- 
less to  clothe  it  with  beauty.  Thus  I  felt  when  I  first  attempted  to  rehearse 
Juliet.     Disappointed  and  dispirited,  I  turned  wearily  from  the  task. 

But  when  night  comes,  and  the  actor  lays  aside  his  personality  with  his 
every-day  garments,  the  Promethean  fire  is  rekindled — he  reascends  the 
height  from  which  he  fell  in  the  morning — external  circumstances  lie  beneath 
his  feet — his  gaze  is  upward,  not  downward — he  not  embodies  merely,  but 
emouh  the  emanation  of  the  poet's  mind.  Such  were  my  experiences  when 
I  first  had  the  hardihood  to  enact  Juliet. 

Xo  character  ever  excited  me  more  intensely.  Juliet's  dagger,  too  im- 
petuously used,  more  than  once  drew  blood.  But  I  found  the  sensation  of 
-.tabbing  one's  self  anything  but  poetic  ;  the  dagger's  point  was  consequently 
dulled  into  harmlessness.     Once  I  forgot  this  necessary  appendage  of  the 


104  WOMEN   of   the'  south. 

heroine  in  the  last  act.  Romeo,  who  was  lying  dead  upon  the  ground,  was 
better  provided.  As  I  stooped  to  loosen  the  steel  from  his  girdle,  the 
poisoned  lover,  who  was  aware  of  my  stabbing  episodes,  came  suddenly  to 
life,  and  whispered,  in  a  sepulchral  tone,  "Look  out — it's  very  sharp — you'll 
stab  yourself." 


JULIET'S    TOMB. 

I  well  remember  my  sensations  the  first  time  I  was  ever  laid  in  Juliet's 
tomb.  The  friar  tells  her  that,  according  to  the  custom  of  her  country,  she 
shall  be  borne 

"  In  her  best  robes,  uncovered,  on  the  bier." 

Adhering  to  the  text,  I  have  since  worn  bridal  attire  in  place  of  the  shroud- 
like dress  usually  adopted  by  stage  Juliets.  But  that  night,  a  loose  white 
muslin  robe,  drawn  in  folds  around  the  throat,  and  fastened  with  a  cord  at 
the  waist,  was  the  garment  accidentally  chosen  for  me.  It  was  too  palpably 
suited  to  the  bier.  The  walls  of  the  tomb  were  hung  with  black.  An 
antique  lamp,  that  shed  a  luridly-green  light  upon  my  free,  was  suspended 
from  the  centre  of  the  sombre,  though  temporary,  inclosure.  As  I  lay  wait- 
ing for  Romeo  to  kill  Paris,  and  break  open  the  doors  of  the  sepulchre,  I 
overheard  the  whispered  conversation  of  some  scene-shifters  who  stood  with- 
out. They  were  each  holding  a  cord  attached  to  the  doors  of  the  tomb. 
The  cords  according  to  stage  direction,  were  to  be  loosened  at  the  third  blow 
of  Romeo's  "  wrenching  iron."  The  worthy  scene-shifters  passed  sentence 
of  death  upon  me  with  admirable  sang  froid,  and  decided  that  I  would  soon 
be  lying  "  for  good  "  and  "  in  earnest "  where  I  was  then  reposing  as  Juliet's 
representative — in  the  tomb. 

To  use  the  expressive  language  of  one  of  the  men,  I  was  "  booked  for  (lie 
other  world,  and  no  mistake!"  Their  grave  predictions  were  interrupted  by 
Romeo's  first  blow  upon  the  door.  I  was  not  particularly  sorry  when  the 
funereal  portals  flew  back,  and  he  bore  me  out  of  the  mock  sepulchre. 


A  X.N  A    CORA    MO  WATT    RITCHIE.  105 


THE    REPRESENTATIVE   BALCONY. 

Juliet  was  one  of  the  characters  in  which  I  seemed  fated  to  he  placed  in 
constant  peril  of  life  or  limb.  Several  times  the  halcony,  from  which  the 
loving  lady  of  Verona  makes  her  midnight  confession  to  Romeo,  was  danger- 
ously insecure.  Once  a  portion  of  the  railing,  over  which  I  was  leaning, 
forgetful  of  its  representative  nature,  gave  way.  Had  I  not  dropped  suddenly 
on  my  knees,  Juliet  must  have  heen  precipitated  into  Romeo's  arms  before 
lie  expected  her,  and  very  probably  would  not  have  visited  Friar  Lawrence's 
cell  that  night. 


THE    INKY    POTION. 

One  evening,  the  property  man — so  the  individual  who  has  the  charge  of 
potions,  amulets,  caskets  of  jewels,  purses  filled  with  any  quantity  of  golden 
coin,  and  other  theatrical  treasures,  designated  as  stage  properties,  is  styled 
— forgot  the  bottle  containing  Juliet's  sleeping  potion.  The  omission  was 
only  discovered  at  the  moment  the  vial  was  needed.  Some  bottle  must  be 
furnished  to  the  Friar,  or  he  cannot  utter  the  solemn  charge  witli  which  he 
confides  the  drug  to  the  perplexed  scion  of  the  Capulets.  The  property  man 
confused  at  discovering  his  own  neglect,  and  fearful  of  the  fine  to  which  i: 
would  subject  him,  caught  up  the  first  small  bottle  at  hand,  and  gave  it  to 
the  Friar.  The  vial  was  the  prompter's,  and  contained  ink.  "When  Juliet 
snatched  the  fatal  potion  from  the  Friar's  hand,  he  whispered  something  in 
an  undertone.  I  caught  the  words,  "so  take  care,'"  but  was  too  absorbed  in 
my  part  to  comprehend  the  warning.  Juliet  returns  home — meets  her 
parents — retires  to  her  own  chamber — dismisses  her  nurse — and  finally 
drinks  the  potion.     At  the  words — 

"  Romeo  !   this  do  I  drink  to  thee  !" 

I  placed  the  bottle  to  my  lips,  and  unsuspiciously  swallowed  the  inky 
draught !  The  dark  stain  upon  my  hands  and  lips  might  have  been  mistaken 
tor  the  quick  workings  of  the  poison,  for  the  audience  remained  ignorant  of 
the  mishap,  which  I  only  half  comprehended.  When  the  scene  closed,  the 
prompter  rushed  up  to  me,  exclaiming,  "Good  gracious!  you  have  been 
drinking  my  bottle  of  ink!"     I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  quoting  the 


106  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

remark  of  the  dying  wit  under  similar  circumstances,  "Let  me  swallow  a 
sheet  of  blotting-paper  !"  The  frightened  prompter,  however,  did  not  under- 
stand the  joke. 

THE  CAUTIOUS   ACTOR. 

The  misfortunes  that  attended  the  representation  of  Romeo  and  Juliet 
that  night,  did  not  all  fall  upon  me.  The  part  of  Paris  was  intrusted  to  a 
promising  young  novice.  lie  delivered  the  language  witli  scholarly  precision, 
and  might  have  passed  for  an  actor  until  he  came  to  the  fighting  scene 
with  Romeo.  Romeo  disarmed  him  with  a  facility  which  did  great  credit 
to  the  good  nature  of  Paris,  for  whom  life  had,  of  course,  lost  its  charms 
with  Juliet.  It  then  became  the  duty  of  Paris,  who  is  mortally  wounded,  to 
die.  The  Paris  on  this  occasion  took  his  death-blow  very  kindly.  His  dying 
preparations  were  made  with  praiseworthy  deliberation.  First  he  looked 
over  one  shoulder,  and  then  over  the  other,  to  find  a  soft  place  where  he 
might  fall — it  was  evidently  his  intention  to  yield  up  his  existence  as  com- 
fortably as  possible.  Having  satisfied  himself  in  the  selection  of  an  advan- 
tageous spot,  he  dropped  down  gently,  breaking  his  descent  in  a  manner  not 
altogether  describable.  As  he  softly  laid  himself  back,  he  informed  Romeo 
of  the  calamity  that  had  befallen  him  by  ejaculating: 

"  0.  I  am  slain  !" 

The  audience  hissed  their  rebellion  at  such  an  easy  death. 

u  If  tliou  art  merciful  " 

continued  Paris — the  audience  hissed  more  loudly  still,  as  though  calling  upon 
Romeo  to  show  no  mercy  to  a  man  who  died  so  luxuriously. 

"  Open  the  tomb,  and  " 

faltered  Paris — but  what  disposition  he  preferred  to  be  made  of  the  mortal 
mold,  upon  which  he  had  bestowed  such  care,  no  Romeo  could  have  heard  ; 
fur  the  redoubled  hisses  of  the  audience  drowned  all  other  sounds,  and 
admonished  Paris  to  precipitate  his  departure  to  the  other  world. 

The  next  day,  the  young  aspirant  for  dramatic  distinction  was  summoned 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCHIE.  1()T 

by  the  manager,  and  asked  what  he  meant  by  (lying  in  such  a  manner  on  the 
night  previous. 

"Why,  I  thought  that  I  did  the  thing  in  the  most  gentlemanly  style," 
replied  the  discomfited  Thespian. 

••  How  came  you  to  look  behind  you,  sir,  before  you  fell  ?"  angrily  inquired 
the  manager. 

••  Surely  you  wouldn't  have  me  drop  down  without  looking  out  to  see 
what  I  was  going  to  strike  against  ?" 

"  Do  you  suppose  a  man,  when  he  is  killed  in  reality,  looks  behind  him 
for  a  convenient  spot  before  he  falls,  sir  ?" 

"But  I  wasn't  killed  in  reality,  and  I  was  afraid  of  dislocating  my  shoul- 
der!" pleaded  Paris. 

"  Afraid  of  dislocating  your  shoulder  !  If  you  are  afraid  of  breaking  your 
leg,  or  your  neck  either,  when  you  are  acting,"  said  the  stern  manager, 
"  you're  not  fit  for  this  profession.  Your  instinct  of  self-preservation  is  too 
large  for  an  actor's  economy.  You're  dismissed,  sir;  there's  no  employment 
here  for  persons  of  your  cautious  temperament." 


HAPPINESS. 

Sahettc.  You  seemed  so  happy! 

Blanche.  Then  did  I — do  I  seem  the  thing  I  am! 
Seem  happy — how  could  I  seem  otherwise  ? 
'Tis  happiness  to  me  to  live — to  be! 
My  very  instincts — nay,  the  very  use 
Of  every  separate  sense  by  which  we  hold 
Communion  visible  with  external  being 
Is  happiness  !     To  gaze  upon  the  sky- 
Arched  in  blue  glory  o'er  my  upturned  head — 
The  forms  of  beauty  called  by  loving  spring 
(  hit  of  the  affluent  bosom  of  the  earth  ; 
The  sun,  beneath  whose  warm,  resplendent  light 
All  nature  teems:  these  simplest,  daily  things, 
Which  custom  cannot  strip  of  loveliness, 


108  WOMEN'    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

To  look  on  these  is  to  be  happy ! — is 

To  feel  my  bosom  swell  with  gratitude 

To  Him  who  made  them,  to  make  us  more  blest ! 


ARMAND'S  GRIEF. 

Arm.  {after  gazing  awhile  on  Blanche.) 

Oh!  Blanche!  my  own— though  lost— still,  still  my  own! 
A  little  while  I  yet  may  gaze  on  thee, 
And  in  the  treasury  of  my  soul  may  store 
The  memory  of  each  stiff  'ning  lineament 
Where  beauty  lingers  still !     "  It  cannot  be  ! 
Shall  those  soft  eyes  no  more  look  into  mine, 
Nor  veil  themselves  when  with  too  bold  a  joy 
I  gaze  within  their  azure  depths?  shall  love, 
With  its  aurora,  tint  thy  cheek  no  more  i 
The  low,  glad  music  of  thy  voice,  no  more 
Sunder  those  gentle  lips,  with  words  that  fell 
Like  blessings  on  the  ears  that  took  them  in '. 
My  Blanche!  my  other  and  my  better  self! 
How  weary  seems  the  path  I  thought  to  climb, 
Thy  hand  in  mine, — thy  smile  to  light  me  on, 
Thy  sunny  presence  to  make  glad  each  step  ! 
Alone  life's  burden  must  be  borne — alone 
The  struggling  heart  crush  underneath  its  weight  !" 
A  holy  smile  yet  hovers  on  thy  lace. 
As  though  the  angels,  when  they  summoned  thee, 
One  golden  glimpse  of  paradise  revealed, 
And  left  that  happy  print  upon  thy  lip. 
No,  no!  thou  art  not  lost — we  are  not  parted! 
For,  Heavenward  as  my  tearful  eyes  I  turn, 
A  radiant  vision  meets  them  there,  and  bids 
Me  guard  my  soul,  unsullied  by  a  deed 
That  could  divide  us  in  that  land  of  joy  ! 
My  heart  bath  but  one  wish — my  life  one  hop* — 
All  time  one  joy— that  of  rejoining  thee  ! 


ANNA    CORA    HOWATT    RITCHIE.  109 


ARMAND'S  LOVE. 

King.  You  loved  her,  then  ? 

Arm.  Loved  her?  the  earliest  page 

In  memory's  record  held  but  that  young  love. 
From  boyhood  up  to  youth — from  youth  to  manhood — 
Each  tenderer  thought — sublimer  aspiration — 
And  purer  hope  was  woven  with  that  love. 
Our  very  natures  blended  as  we  grew, 
My  spirit,  gentleness  from  hers  imbibed, 
And  hers,  its  strength  and  vigor  caught  from  mine ! 
Our  childish  tears  upon  each  other"  s  breast 
Were  ever  shed.     Our  childish  laughter  rang 
The  changes  of  its  mingling  mirth  together, 
And  in  each  other's  joy  all  childhood's  blessings 
Were  mirrored — magnified — and  multiplied ! 


ARMAND'S  TRUTH. 

King.  Beware  !  our  patience  is  not  made  of  stuff 
Too  lasting — try  it  not  beyond  its  strength — 
Marry  De  Rohan's  daughter !     'Tis  thy  king 
Commands ! 

Arm.        My  gracious  liege,  no  king  can  tear 
The  land-marks  from  the  honest  path  of  Truth. 
Marry!  call'st  thou  that  marriage  which  but  joins 
Two  hands  with  iron  bonds?  that  yokes,  but  not 
Unites,  two  hearts  whose  pulses  never  beat 
In  unison  ?     The  legal  crime  that  mocks 
The  very  name  of  marriage — that  invades — 
Profanes — destroys  its  inner  holiness? 
No  !   'tis  the  spirit  that  alone  can  wed, 
When  with  spontaneous  joy  it  seeks  and  finds, 
And  with  its  kindred  spirit  blends  itself! 
My  liege,  there  is  no  other  marriage  tie ! 


110  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


VIRTUE  ITS  OWN  SHIELD. 

King.  Nay,  Blanche, 

Mar  not  thy  beauty  with  this  frigid  bearing, 
Frowns  do  not  suit  those  gentle  eyes,  nor  fierceness 
Thy  timid  nature — weak  thou  art — 

Blan.  Not  weak, 

My  liege,  when  roused  by  insult  and  by  wrong ! 
I  tell  thee,  haughty  king — presumptuous  man ! 
That  like  the  unshorn  locks  the  Nazarene 
Vowed  to  his  God — the  purity  of  woman 
Becomes  at  once  her  glory  and  her  might ! 

King.  Ah,  Blanche !  and  is  there  no  excuse  for  love  ? 

Blan.  Thy  love  is  but  self-love  !  that  first  and  worst 
Of  passions — poisoned  spring  of  every  crime — 
Which  hath  no  attribute  of  perfect  love  ! 

King.  This  to  thy  king  ? 

Blan.  Art  kingly  in  thy  deeds  i 

The  star  that  shines  so  brightly  on  thy  breast 
Is  worthless  if  it  shed  no  light  within! 
The  throne  that  lifts  thee  o'er  thy  fellow-men 
Should  teach  thee  virtues  which  alone  can  raise 
Thee  'bove  them ! 

King.  At  thy  feet  let  me  implore— 

Blan.  Stand  off!  approach  me  not! 

King.  Thou  fearest  me,  then  ? 

Blan.  Fear  thee  ?     Banger  should  be  where  fear  is — I  see  none  ! 

King.  Woman !  thou  shalt  not  brave  me  thus !  [Seizes  her. 

No  human  power  can  save  thee — thou  art  mine ! 
What  are  thy  feeble  struggles  in  my  grasp  ? 

Blan.  (sinking  on  her  Tcnees)     Spare  me,  my  liege,  spare  me ! 

King.  It  is  thy  turn 
To  sue,  and  all  in  vain !  thou  hast  forgot 
That  I  am  king,  and  thou  hast  no  protector! 

Blan.  (starting  up)  I  have  !  I  have!     One  who  forsakes  me  not ! 
One  whom  thou  darest  not  brave !  unloose  thy  hold 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCUIE.  HI 

Or  dread  his  fury !     Heaven  protects  me  still ! 

[The  king  releases  her,  awed  hy  her  manner. 
Thou  art  my  sovereign — I  a  friendless  subject — 
I  woman  and  thou  man! — my  helplessness 
Was  of  itself  a  claim  to  thy  protection — 
A  claim  thou  hast  rejected!     Answer,  king ! 
Hast  thou  done  right  ?     Man,  was  it  well  to  use 
Thy  strength  against  my  weakness  ?     Thou  art  dumb ! 
Thou  canst  not  answer !     King  of  France,  I  scorn  thee! 

[Exit  l.  1  i.. 
King.  Why  should  I  shrink  from  one  so  powerless  ? 
And  can  it  be  that  Virtue's  presence  awes 
Me  thus?     That  Virtue  which  no  weapon  needs 
Except  its  own  resistless  dignity ! 

She  speaks,  I'm  hushed — she  spurns  me,  and  I  cower — 
She  leaves  me,  and  I  dare  not  follow  her ! 


MR.  AND  MRS.  TIFFANY  AT  HOME. 

Tif.  Your  extravagance  will  ruin  me,  Mrs.  Tiffany ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  And  your  stinginess  will  ruin  me,  Mr.  Tiffany !  It  is  totally 
and  toot  a  fate  impossible  to  convince  you  of  the  necessity  of  keeping  up 
appearances.  There  is  a  certain  display  which  every  woman  of  fashion  is 
forced  to  make ! 

Tif.    And  pray  who  made  you  a  woman  of  fashion  ? 

Mrs.  Tif.  What  a  vulgar  question !  All  women  of  fashion,  Mr. 
Tiffany — 

Tif.  In  this  land  are  self-constituted,  like  you,  madam — and  fashion  is 
the  cloak  for  more  sins  than  charity  ever  covered !  It  was  for  fashion's  sake 
that  you  insisted  upon  my  purchasing  this  expensive  house — it  was  for 
fashion's  sake  that  you  ran  me  in  debt  at  every  exorbitant  upholsterer's  and 
extravagant  furniture  warehouse  in  the  city — it  was  for  fashion's  sake  that, 
you  built  that  ruinous  conservatory — hired  more  servants  than  they  have 
persons  to  wait  upon — and  dressed  your  footman  like  a  harlequin ! 

Mrs.    Tif.    Mr.  ^Tiffany,  you    are  thoroughly  plebeian,  and    insufferably 


112  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

American,  in  your  grovelling  ideas!  And  pray  what  was  the  occasion  of 
those  very  mal-appro-pos  remarks?  Merely  because  I  requested  a  paltry- 
fifty  dollars  to  purchase  a  new  style  of  head-dress — a  lijou  of  an  article  just 
introduced  in  France. 

Tif  Time  was,  Mrs.  Tiffany,  when  you  manufactured  your  own  French 
head-dresses — took  off  their  first  gloss  at  the  public  balls,  and  then  sold 
them  to  your  shortest-sighted  customers.  And  all  you  knew  about  France 
or  French  either,  was  what  you  spelt  out  at  the  bottom  of  your  fashion 
plates — but  now  you  have  grown  so  fashionable,  forsooth,  that  you  have 
forgotten  how  to  speak  your  mother  tongue! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Tiffany,  Mr.  Tiffany!  Nothing  is  more  positively  vul- 
garian— more  una/ristocratic  than  any  allusion  to  the  past! 

Tif.  Why  I  thought,  my  dear,  that  aristocrats  lived,  principally,  upon 
the  past — and  traded  in  the  market  of  fashion  with  the  bones  of  their 
ancestors  for  capital  ? 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Tiffany,  such  vulgar  remarks  are  only  suitable  to  the 
counting-house,  in  my  drawing-room  you  should 

Tif.  Vary  my  sentiments  with  my  locality,  as  you  change  your  manners 
with  your  dress  I 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Tiffany,  I  desire  that  you  will  purchase  Count  d'Orsay's 
"Science  of  Etiquette,"  and  learn  how  to  conduct  yourself — especially  before 
you  appear  at  the  grand  ball,  which  I  shall  give  on  Friday ! 

Tif.  Confound  your  balls,  madam ;  they  make  foot-balls  of  my  money, 
while  you  dance  away  all  that  I  am  worth!  A  pretty  time  to  give  a  ball 
when  you  know  that  I  am  on  the  very  brink  of  bankruptcy ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  So  much  the  greater  reason  that  nobody  should  suspect  your 
circumstances,  or  you  would  lose  your  credit  at  once.  Just  at  this  crisis  a 
ball  is  absolutely  necessary  to  save  your  reputation !  There  is  Mrs.  Adolphus 
Dashaway — she  gave  the  most  splendid  fete  of  the  season — and  I  hear  on 
very  good  authority  that  her  husband  has  not  paid  his  baker's  bill  in  three 
months.     Then  there  was  Mrs.  Honeywood 

Tif.  Gave  a  ball  the  night  before  her  husband  shot  himself;  perhaps  you 
wish  to  drive  me  to  follow  his  example  ?  [Crosses  to  E.  L.  n. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Good  gracious !  Mr.  Tiffany  !  how  you  talk!  I  beg  you  won't 
mention  anything  of  the  kind.  I  consider  black  the  most  unbecoming  color. 
I'm  sure  I've  done  all  that  I  could  to  gratify  you.  There  is  that  vulgar 
old  torment,  Trueman,  who  gives  one  the  lie  fifty  times  a  day — haven't  I 
been  very  civil  to  him  ? 


ANNA    CORA    MOWATT    RITCHIE.  1 1 3 

Tif.  Civil  to  his  wealth,  Mrs.  Tiffany  !  I  told  you  that  lie  was  a  rich 
old  fanner — the  early  friend  of  my  father — my  own  henefaetor — and  that  I 
had  reason  to  think  he  might  assist  me  in  my  present  embarrassments. 
Your  civility  was  bought,  and,  like  most  of  your  own  purchases,  has  yet  to 
l.r  r,<id  for.  [Crosses  to  u.  n. 

Mrs.  Tif.  And  will  be,  no  doubt!  The  condescension  of  a  woman  of 
fashion  should  command  any  price.  Mr.  Trueman  is  insupportahly  indeco- 
rous ;  he  has  insulted  Count  Jolimaitre  in  the  most  outrageous  manner.  If 
the  count  was  not  so  deeply  interested — so  abime  with  Seraphina,  I  am  sure 
he  would  never  honor  us  by  his  visits  again ! 

Tif.  So  uracil  the  1  letter — he  shall  never  marry  my  daughter! — I  am 
resolved  on  that.  Why,  madam,  I  am  told  there  is  in  Paris  a  regular  matri- 
monial stock  company,  who  fit  out  indigent  dandies  for  this  market.  How 
do  I  know  but  this  fellow  is  one  of  its  creatures,  and  that  he  has  come  here 
to  increase  its  dividends  by  marrying  a  fortune  ? 

Mrs.  Tif.  Nonsense,  Mr.  Tiffany.  The  count— the  most  fashionable 
young  man  in  all  New  York— the  intimate  friend  of  all  the  dukes  and  lords 
in  Europe— not  marry  my  daughter?  Not  permit  Seraphina  to  become  a 
countess  ?     Mr.  Tiffany,  you  are  out  of  your  senses ! 

Tif  That  would  not  he  very  wonderful,  considering  how  many  years  I 
have  been  united  to  you,  my  dear.  Modern  physicians  pronounce  lunacy 
infectious! 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WAEFIELD. 

Catharine  Anne  "Ware  was  the  daughter  of  Major  Natha- 
niel A.  Ware,  of  Natchez — formerly  Secretary  of  State  of  the 
Mississipj>i  Territory — and  of  Sarah  Ellis,  his  wife.  Her 
maternal  grandfather,  Capt.  Charles  Percy,  of  the  British 
Navy,  had  retired  from  his  profession  on  half  pay,  to  settle  on 
a  grant  of  land  conferred  upon  him  by  the  crown,  during  the 
brief  tenure  of  the  Natchez  country  by  England.  His  estate 
lay  near  Fort  Adams,  and  he  was  widely  known  in  the  region 
in  which  he  dwelt  for  his  liberal  hospitality  and  baronial  style 
of  living,  so  different  from  the  primitive  simplicity  around  him. 
He  left  behind  him  large  possessions,  to  which  his  children 
succeeded. 

The  marriage  of  Major  Ware  with  Mrs.  Ellis  took  place 
after  the  death  of  her  father,  and  about  the  time  of  the  termina- 
tion of  the  last  British  war.  The  pair  resided  at  their  country- 
seat  near  Natchez,  during  the  brief  period  of  their  union. 

Of  two  children — the  only  offspring  of  this  marriage — Catha- 
rine was  the  elder.  By  the  birth  of  the  younger  daughter,  the 
sisters  were  deprived  of  a  mother's  care,  and  the  arduous  duty 
of  rearing  and  educating  them  devolved  thenceforth  solely  on 
their  father. 

In  order  to  conduct  their  education  with  greater  advantage 
and  facility,  Major  Ware  sold  his  southern  estates,  and  removed 
to  Philadelphia.  There,  in  connection  with  his  own  instruc- 
tion, he  obtained  masters  for  the  lighter  branches  and  accom- 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  115 

plishments,  still  adhering  consistently,  however,  to  his  favorite 
plan  of  home  education.  Himself  a  man  of  rare  scientific 
attainments,  he  was  eminently  qualified  for  this  self-appointed 
task,  which  his  want  of  other  employment,  and  singularly 
reserved  nature,  made  valuable  to  him  as  a  resource  against 
ennui,  and  as  an  outlet  for  feeling. 

It  was  a  part  of  his  plan  to  develop  the  minds  of  his 
children  by  travel ;  and  a  portion  of  each  year  was  devoted  to 
visiting  different  points  of  interest  either  in  the  northern  or 
southern  States.  These  journeys,  together  with  his  prejudices 
against  schools — which  necessarily  limited  the  intimate  com- 
panionship of  his  daughters  to  each  other — may  have  had 
much  to  do  with  the  development  of  the  poetic  faculty,  which 
must,  however,  have  been  inherent  in  both,  if  we  accept  the 
ordinary  theory  of  natural  gifts. 

The  elder  daughter,  Catharine,  was  married  very  young  to 
Elisha  Warfield,  a  gentleman  of  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and  a 
member  of  a  large  and  honorable  family  in  that  region.  They 
continued  to  reside  in  this  place  until  1857,  when  circumstances 
induced  them  to  remove  to  a  farm  in  the  vicinity  of  Louisville, 
Kentucky. 

The  life  of  Mrs.  Warfield  has  been  almost  wholly  domestic 
and  social,  and  uneventful  save  in  its  emotional  character.  Her 
literary  tastes  have  found  outlet  chiefly  in  her  intercoiirse  with 
her  father  and  sister,  while  they  lived,  and  later,  through  the 
medium  of  two  or  three  chosen  papers.  The  turn  of  western 
society,  however  graceful  and  refined  it  may  be,  is  opposed  to 
the  detail  of  letters  ;  yet  no  people  more  cordially  and  appre- 
ciatively acknowledge  literary  prestige,  whenever  it  is  well 
founded.  But  the  mind  that  finds  its  pleasure  in  literary 
pursuits,  is  scarcely  satisfied  with  a  mere  recognition  of  the 
dignity  of  its  vocation  ;  it  demands  a  more  near  and  immediate 
sympathy  for  the  full  growth  and  development  of  its  powers. 


116  WOMEN     OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  poetic  faculty,  especially,  requires  the  stimulus  of  high 
mental  atmosphere  and  attrition,  to  briny  it  to  perfection. 
Mrs.  Warfield  may  have  felt  the  need  of  this  incentive. 

A  volume  containing  the  joint  productions  of  herself  and 
sister,  was  published  in  1843,  under  the  title  of  "The  Wife  of 
Leon  and  Other  Poems,  by  Two  Sisters  of  the  "West."  It  was 
made  up  of  short  pieces,  written  from  time  to  time  as  the  poetic 
element  stirred,  in  ebb-tide  intervals  of  social  enjoyment,  with- 
out a  thought  that  they  would  ever  come  under  the  public  eye. 
But,  urged  by  literary  friends,  in  whom  they  had  implicit 
confidence,  and  more  especially  by  their  father,  whom  they 
could  refuse  nothing,  they  reluctantly  consented  to  appear  as 
authors. 

A  most  favorable  reception  of  this  volume  by  the  press 
generally,  and  one  or  two  critical  journals  in  particular, 
encouraged  them,  in  1846,  to  publish  a  new  collection  of  their 
writings,  entitled  "  The  Indian  Chamber  and  Other  Poems." 
In  this  volume  is  discernible  a  marked  advance  in  poetic  range 
and  depth,  as  well  as  facile  and  ingenious  construction.  Both 
collections  indicate  strong  powers  in  reserve,  and  we  naturally 
looked  to  these  writers  for  something  still  higher  in  the  way  of 
poetic  art.  But,  as  the  years  rolled  on,  the  younger  sister — 
Mrs.  Lee — passed  with  her  varying  lyre  into  the  unseen  world, 
and  Mrs.  Warfield,  feeling,  perhaps,  that  the  utterances  of 
maturer  life  need  a  broader  and  deeper  channel  than  the  tram- 
mels of  verse  afford,  has  recently  "slanted  off"  into  the  ocean 
of  prose — if  rumor  may  be  credited,  is  even  now  busy  upon 
the  pages  of  a  romance,  which  promises  very  soon  to  make  its 
mark  upon  the  time. 

Among  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Warfield,  which  we  subjoin, 
"  The  Legend  of  the  Indian  Chamber "  and  "  The  Foe's 
Return "  are  strongly  dramatic,  and  reveal  a  tragic  vein  in 
the  writer,  of  which  she  herself  seems  only  half  conscious. 


CATHARIXE    AXXE    WARFIELD,  117 

(Since  this  sketch  was  written,  we  have  been  favored 
with  the  proof-sheets  of  the  first  volume  of  Mrs.  Warfield's 
promised  work. 

As  one  roaming  over  a  goodly  domain,  whose  value  he  has 
already  gauged  by  visible  stretches  of  bill,  valley  and  wood- 
land, comes  suddenly,  in  the  heart  of  the  latter,  upon  a  rocky 
height  looking  far  out  upon  loftier  heights,  and  far  down  into 
wild  ravines — so  have  we  come  upon  these  pages  of  the 
"  Household  of  Bouverie."  Here  is  a  revelation  of  our  author 
beside  which  the  few  words  we  had  written  of  tragic  power  in 
reserve,  seem  tame  and  spiritless.  We  are  glad,  however,  that 
such  words  stand  in  favor  of  any  degree  of  insight  on  our  part. 

If  the  last  volume  of  this  work  bears  out  the  promise  of  the 
first,  it  is  one  which  "  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die." 
We  doubt  if  any  such  book  was  ever  written  before  by  an 
American  woman — a  work  so  great  in  conception  and  so 
masterly  in  execution. 

It  is  refreshing  to  read  something  new  in  this  book-plethoric 
age.  "  The  Household  of  Bouverie"  is  a  story  projected  from 
the  writers  own  brain  and  being — a  bold,  sharp,  live,  magnetic- 
creation.  The  several  scenes  in  the  mysterious  chamber,  the 
interviews  between  Lilian  and  Erastus  Bouverie,  with  their 
pungent,  pre-Baphaelite  details,  are  pictures  which,  having 
once  burned  into  the  brain,  can  never  be  forgotten.  A  quaint- 
ness  and  originality  remind  one  constantly  of  Hawthorne,  vet 
belong  wholly  to  Warlield. 

But  we  have  no  space  for  a  full  analysis  of  the  sharp, 
imaginative  power,  the  subtilized  diablerie  of  this  large-brained 
book.  It  will  have  its  meed.  We  are  only  too  happy  to 
record  it  here — the  master-piece  of  our  author,  and  a  worthy 
criterion  of  her  powers.) 


118  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    BOUVERIE. 

My  grandmother's  spacious  bed-room,  ending  in  a  half  octagon,  formed  a 
central  projection  from  the  rear  of  the  building.  Three  doors  opened  into 
this  apartment  from  the  sides  that  joined  the  house,  and  presented  a  stiff 
array,  separated  as  they  were  by  wide  panels  lined  with  mirrors.  The  cen- 
tral door  opened  with  leaves  into  a  square  or  rather  oblong  hall ;  the  others, 
narrower  and  of  simpler  construction,  gave  into  small  rooms,  evidently  par- 
titioned from  the  hall  for  convenience  rather  than  symmetry,  since  the  effect 
to  the  eye  must  have  been  far  more  liberal  when  the  passage  swept  across 
the  house,  as  I  knew  afterward  it  had  originally  done.  Oue  of  these  cham- 
bers, some  twelve  feet  square  only,  yet  lofty  and  well  ventilated,  had  been 
fitted  up  for  me  with  a  care  and  taste  that  left  me  nothing  to  regret,  even 
when  I  compared  it  with  the  comfort  and  luxury  of  my  former  home.  That 
which  I  supposed  to  correspond  with  it  on  the  other  side  (which  indeed 
the  form  and  size  of  the  mansion  made  evidently  the  case),  was  kept  strictly 
locked;  and  at  first  I  conceived  it  to  be  my  grandmother's  oratory — recall- 
ing that  of  the  mistress  of  Taunton  Tower — or  study,  perhaps,  where  books 
and  paintings,  sacred  to  her  eye  alone,  were  cautiously  concealed,  as  I  had 
heard  was  the  custom  among  the  authors  and  artists  of  the  world. 

But  my  grandmother,  I  soon  discovered,  was  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other;  and  when  I  found  how  simple  and  even  homely  were  the  details  of 
her  every-day  life,  I  descended  from  my  pedestal  of  fancy,  and  determined 
that  this  "Blue  Beard  chamber,"  so  mysterious  and  inaccessible  to  me,  was 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  shy  woman's  dressing-room.  A  deep  reticence 
of  nature  did  indeed  underlie,  in  a  very  remarkable  degree,  the  sparkling 
cordiality  of  my  grandmother's  manner.  You  stumbled  on  this  constitutional 
or  habitual  reserve,  accidentally  sometimes,  as  you  might  do  on  a  stone  hid 
in  a  bed  of  flowers,  and  with  something  of  the  same  sharp,  sudden  anguish; 
but  I  am  digressing  to  speak  of  this  now.  I  wish  to  give  at  once,  for  reasons 
that  will  be  plainer  hereafter,  as  correct  an  idea  as  I  know  how  to  convey 
by  words,  of  the  construction  of  the  house  of  Bouverie. 

The  central  building,  as  seen  from  without,  built  as  it  was  of  the  dun- 
colored  sandstone  common  to  that  region,  consisted  of  two  stories  sur- 
mounted by  a  circular  dome  or  cupola.  A  glitter  on  the  roof  of  this  super- 
structure, which  was  observable  at  some  distance  from  the  mansion,  pointed 
to  the  idea  of  a  skylight  or  glass  framework,  which  might  in  the  beginning 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  119 

have  lit  the  lower  as  well  as  the  upper  hall,  it'  such  indeed  existed.  No 
evidence  that  an  upper  floor  formed  any  portion  of  the  house  was  afforded 
by  its  internal  construction ;  it  contained  no  stairway,  and  the  circular  hall 
of  entrance  was  ceiled  over,  so  as  to  shut  out  any  connection  with  that 
which  might  have  been  supposed  to  lie  above  it. 

The  house  was  built  in  the  outline  of  a  disproportioned  cross,  in  which 
the  small  square  vestibule  in  front,  my  grandmother's  projecting  chamber  in 
the  rear,  and  the  two  long  wings,  containing  severally  the  gentlemen's  apart- 
ments and  accommodations  and  offices  for  servants,  represented  the  four 
limbs.  The  main  building  contained  only,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  within, 
the  central  circular  hall  to  which  I  have  already  referred,  and  one  large 
room  on  either  hand  opening  from  this  rotunda,  and  made  square,  or  rather 
oblong,  by  means  of  triangular  closets.  The  lateral  hall,  with  its  divided 
chambers,  completed  the  quadrangle. 

I  understood  later  how  it  was  that  after  her  husband's  death — one  of 
violence  and  horror  it  was  whispered — my  grandmother  had  cut  off  all 
communication  with  those  upper  rooms  which  lie  had  chiefly  inhabited, 
associated  in  her  mind  as  they  were  with  bloodshed  and  self-slaughter ;  and 
how,  as  the  dark  legend  crept  stealthily  around,  that  night  after  night  he 
might  still  be  heard  walking  their  floors,  and  had  even  been  seen  descending 
the  spiral  stairs  that  linked  one  circular  hall  with  the  other,  while  the  moon 
shone  down  through  the  great  skylight,  revealing  to  the  startled  watchers 
his  ghastly  lineaments  and  spectral  form — she  had,  in  the  desperation  of  her 
fear  and  agony,  sealed  up  forever  those  haunted  and  accursed  chambers. 
For  this  purpose  the  stairway  had  been  removed,  and  the  space  between  the 
two  halls  floored  and  ceiled.  This  was  done  with  an  expedition  that  made 
food  for  conjecture  in  the  neighborhood,  having  its  origin,  doubtless,  in  the 
almost  frenzied  terror  of  her  own  sensations,  that  caused  her  to  spare  neither 
expense  nor  urgency  to  have  her  alterations  executed  with  dispatch.  The 
workmen  who  performed  this  task  were  summoned  from  a  distant  town,  and 
spoke  in  a  foreign  tongue.  They  came  and  went  like  shadows;  and  in  this 
manner  she  evaded,  as  much  as  possible,  the  neighborhood  gossip  and 
espionage  which  must  otherwise  have  so  annoyed  her  in  her  crushed  condi- 
tion. For,  at,  the  time  all  this  was  done,  my  grandfather's  fearful  death  was 
recent;  and  the  same  artisans  who  removed  the  stairs,  and  sealed  away  from 
sight  and  access  those  abhorred  upper  apartments,  placed  the  simple  marble 
Dbelisk  which  bore  his  name,  above  his  grave  in  the  cedar  grove. 

A  great  lamp  swung  in  the  centre  of  that  circular  hall  now,  where   the 


120  WOMEX    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

sunlight  and  moonlight  had  once  streamed  freely  down  from  the  transparent 
roof;  and  the  restless  ghost  might  walk  forever  in  those  large  dim  chambers, 
with  their  nailed-up  windows,  and  disused  and  moldering  furniture,  and  dis- 
quiet no  one. 

"  Not  one  article  was  touched  or  brought  away,  Miss  Lilian,  that  ever 
belonged  to  him,"  added  my  informant  in  low  whispered  tones,  the  old 
demure,  ami  yet  gossiping  woman  who  assisted  at  my  toilet,  and  who  had 
lived  with  my  grandmother  and  cared  for  her  since  her  birth;  "not  one 
article,  lest  a  curse  might  cleave  to  it  and  fall  on  us;  ami  still  he  may  be  heard 
at  times — don't  be  frightened,  Miss  Lilian ! — walking,  walking,  the  livelong 
night,  the  livelong  day  even,  as  though  no  rest  were  granted  him  in  the 
other  world,  who  took  no  rest  in  this." 

I  had  hidden  my  face  on  Dame  Bianca's  arm  as  she  proceeded  in  her 
vague  narration,  thrilled  by  a  momentary  terror.  Now  I  looked  up  and  was 
annoyed  by  the  expression  of  her  countenance  as  my  sudden  glance  fell  upon 
it.  She  seemed  to  he  enjoying  the  emotion  with  which  she  had  inspired  me, 
and  a  furtive  and  half-suppressed  smile  lurked  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes 
that  shook  my  confidence  in  the  sincerity  of  bur  representations. 

"She  is  trying  to  fool  me,"  I  thought,  "with  this  ghost-story,  and  to 
make  a  coward  of  me  ;   hut  I  know  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind." 

And  nerved  by  this  sudden  conviction,  I  proceeded  to  question  her  with 
more  coolness  and  sagacity  than  she  could  have  expected  from  one  evidently 
SO  impressed  with  her  narration  a  moment  before. 

"What  made  my  grandfather  so  restless,  Dame  Bianca?"  I  asked.  "  Was 
he  unhappy  and  wicked,  or  only  busy  :" 

"All,  child,  all!  wretched  enough,  I  daresay,  when  lie  stopped  t<>  think 
of  his  misdeeds — and  busy  always  as  any  working-bee  in  summer-time.  Busy 
witli  hand  and  brain,  with  pen  and  sword,  with  drug  and  pistol,  reading 
and  thinking,  plotting  and  contriving;  and  trampling  over  everyone  that 
stood  in  his  way,  without  fear  or  mercy.  But  he  was  a  great  gentleman 
after  all,  more  like  a  prince  than  a  common  man  it  appeared  to  me,  and  so 
grand  in  his  ways,  that  no  man  could  ever  take  a  liberty  with  him,  not  even 
the  old  master,  Ursa  Bouverie,  that  had  no  respect  for  any  one  else,  and 
trod  on  human  feelings  as  a  horse  treads  on  grass.  ( >ld  '  Ursa  Major,'  they 
call  him  hereabouts  ;  but  I  never  could  see  the  sense  of  putting  bis  title  last; 
'Major  Ursa'  would  have  sounded  better,  I  think,  Miss  Lilian  i" 

"Why,  that  means  the  great  hear,  Bianca,"  1  said,  laughing  heartily  at 
the  conceit,  and  entirely  roused  from  the  horrors  of  her  narrative  ;   forget- 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  121 

ting,  too,  in  my  amusement,  the  pique  her  expression  of  triumph  had  occa- 
sioned me  when  she  felt  sure  of  my  credulity.  "  An  excellent  title,  I  have 
no  doubt,  for  the  cross  old  man — Ursa !  what  a  funny  name  for  a  Christ- 
ian!" 

"lie  was  no  Christian,  Miss  Lilian,"  she  said,  gravely;  "but  a  dreadful 
old  heathen  as  the  Lord  ever  permitted  to  live !  I  never  knew  how  it  was 
that  your  grandfather  crept  into  his  feelings  so  toward  the  last,  unless  it 
was" —  and  she  hesitated,  then  digressed  abruptly.  "'She  shall  have  a 
home  of  her  own,  if  my  act  can  give  it  to  her,'  I  heard  him  say  one  night 
about  a  week  before  he  died,  when  your  grandfather — his  nephew,  you 
know,  child,  he  was — was  talking  with  him  about  making  his  will  in  the 
library,  and  he  slammed  Ins  hand  down  just  so  on  the  table  till  it  shook 
again !  '  Shall  I  insert  the  clause  now,  uncle  ?'  I  heard  Mr.  Erastus  Bouverie 
say  in  his  soft,  sweet  tones,  more  like  trickling  water  or  falling  silver  than 
any  other  sound  I  ever  heard.     '  Or  shall  it  be  done  later  ?' 

"  '  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  it  at  all,  Erastus,'  the  old  man 
answered ;  '  after  all  your  objections,  it  might  give  you  too  much  pain  ;  or, 
maybe,  yon  might  accidentally  leave  a  flaw!'  and  old  'Ursa  Major'  laughed 
long  and  loud." 

"  Oh,  Bianca,  that  was  very  insulting  to  say  to  his  nephew,  I  think." 

"  Not  for  him,  Miss  Lilian,  who  never  had  a  civil  word  for  any  one  ex- 
cept Miss  Camilla  ;  hut  her  he  fairly  worshipped.  Anyway,  the  look  he  got 
that  night  from  Mr.  Erastus  would  have  killed  any  one  else  outright.  Few- 
people  could  stand  before  your  grand  father's  eyes,  I  tell  you,  my  child;  but 
he  said  nothing  on  this  occasion,  but  went  on  writing.  I  have  heard  them 
say  that  knew  his  disposition  best,  that  he  never  justified  himself  in  any  way 
but  one."1 

"  And  that  one,  Bianca?" 

"  Never  mind,  Miss  Lilian,  what  that  was,  it  was  a  dreadful  way  at  the 
best;  but  as  I  was  saying,  he  kept  on  writing  in  silence.  The  old  man  did 
not  live  long  afterward  ;  he  died  suddenly,  you  know,  but  he  did  not  forget 
to  add  the  clause,  and  that  was  the  way  your  grandmother  came  to  own 
Bouverie." 

"  But  where  were  you  all  the  time,  Bianca,  to  see  and  hear  so  much  .' 
Were  you  hid  away  to  spy  and  to  listen,  Bianca?  Oh,  I  hope  not,  for  the 
credit  of  our  house." 

•'  Busy  in  the  next  room,  child,  and  the  door  ajar  between;  but  if  you 
hold  such  suspicions,  you  may  learn  the  rest  for  yourself"     Anil  the  injured 


122  WOMEN   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

dame  drew  up  her  slight,  erect  figure  in  an  attitude  that  indicated  fixed 
resolution  ;  nor  could  I  hope  to  learn  from  any  other  source  the  unfinished 
history  I  burned  to  know. 

A  little  scene  had  been  enacted  before  this  conversation  occurred  with 
Bianca,  which  taught  me  the  necessity  of  self-control  in  the  household  of 
Bouverie,  both  as  to  question  and  remark.  I  could  not  venture,  after  this, 
to  inquire  of  any  member  of  the  family  concerning  my  grandfather's  fate  or 
the  events  of  his  life,  in  view  of  the  lesson  that  my  own  indiscretion  had 
taught  me. 

It  was  on  the  day  after  my  arrival  that,  sitting  at  the  supper-table,  dur- 
ing a  long  pause  in  the  conversation,  and  while  my  grandmother  was 
especially  engaged  with  her  coffee-urn,  I  was  suddenly  shaken  by  one  of 
those  unseasonable  fits  of  laughter  common  to  excitable  children. 

"  What  amuses  you,  Lilian?"  asked  Dr.  Qnintil.  "  Come,  give  us  your 
merry  thought,  and  we  will  pluck  it  together." 

"Oh,  Dr.  Quintil,  I  was  only  thinking  how  funny  it  was — and  I  never 
thought  of  it  until  this  minute,  which  makes  it  funnier  still — that  my  uncle 
Jasper  has  never  spoken  one  word  to  me  since  I  came  to  Bouverie!  Not 
one  word,  Mister  Jasper,  have  you  said  to  your  niece  since  she  came  to  live 
with  yon,  either  for  good  or  for  bad,"  and  I  shook  my  finger  playfully  at 
him  across  the  table. 

He  gazed  at  me  a  moment  earnestly,  and  then  suffered  his  forehead  to 
droop  into  his  hands.  Had  I  offended  him?  I  looked  anxiously  at  Dr. 
Quintil ;  he,  too,  was  pale  and  grave,  and  averted  his  eyes  from  mine. 
My  grandmother  alone  retained  her  self-possession. 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  "  in  this  house,  above  all  others,  learn  to  be 
discreet.  It  is  our  misfortune  to  be  an  afflicted  household — Jasper  has  never 
spoken.'''1 

I  dropped  the  untasted  morsel,  and,  in  a  passion  of  grief  and  mortification 
I  slid  from  the  table,  and  lay  with  my  face  on  the  floor.  I  was  raised  by 
kindly  hands.     Jasper  held  me  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done!"  I  said ;  "I  did  not  know — indeed  I  did  not 
know — that  one  might  hear,  and  still  be  dumb.  Poor  Uncle  Jasper !  Can 
you  forgive  me?" 

Words  never  spoke  as  his  eyes  spoke  to  me  then.  I  have  since  believed 
that  in  the  spirit-world  there  will  be  no  need  of  speech,  but  that  light, 
shining  from  each  heavenly  visage,  shall  reveal  whatever  the  immortal 
essence  seeks  to  communicate,  and  words  be  put  awa)'  with  other  bonds  of 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WAKFIELD.  123 

flesh.  lie  held  me  to  his  bosom  long,  for  my  feelings,  when  once  vividly 
aroused,  were  not  easily  consoled  to  quiet  again ;  and  they  told  me  that  on 
that  home  of  peace  I  sobbed  myself  to  rest. 

Jasper — my  Jasper — from  that  hour  I  loved  thee  as  entirely  as  I  shall 
ever  do  when  we  meet  at  the  feet  of  God ! 


GENIUS. 

Jasper  usually  sat  in  the  same  room  in  which  I  was  taught,  pursuing  his 
separate  studies,  and  entirely  engrossed  by  the  volumes  he  pored  over,  to  the 
ezclnsion  of  voices  and  other  disturbing  causes.  lie  had,  indeed,  that  power 
of  application  in  an  uncommon  degree,  which,  by  some  French  authors,  Mon- 
tesquieu, I  believe,  has  been  used  as  a  definition  of  genius.  If  the  meaning 
be  extended  so  as  to  cover  the  ground  of  the  application  of  knowledge  after 
its  acquirement — the  result  of  application  of  mind — to  all  occasions  of  life, 
this  definition  may  be  found  to  possess  merit,  and  eve'n  originality,  and  to 
answer  as  well  as  most  that  have  been  accepted  as  expositions  of  that  Protean 
gift  of  which  Prometheus  was  the  antique  type. 

At  noon,  when  study  hours  were  over  for  the  day,  I  sought  my  grand- 
mother's chamber,  and  found  her  usually  seated  at  her  work  by  the  large 
window  I  have  before  described;  while  the  little  repast  of  fruit,  or  cake,  or 
conserves,  she  never  forgot  to  provide  for  me,  was  placed  on  the  table  by  her 
side.  "When  I  had  partaken  of  this,  I  was  free  to  go,  to  ride  my  pony,  to 
walk,  to  swing,  and  gather  flowers  in  the  fine  season  ;  or  in  winter,  to 
exercise  in  the  basement  below,  kept  warm  for  the  benefit  of  the  flowering 
plants  it  sheltered,  or  to  pore  over  the  volumed  lore  of  the  library,  until  our 
late  dinner  hour  arrived,  or  to  play  and  sing  at  my  piano,  unquestioned  and 
unnoticed ;  for  my  grandmother  knew  better  than  most  persons,  how  impor- 
tant to  the  growth  and  dignity  of  a  child's  character,  is  a  certain  freedom  of 
action  and  solitary  self-reliance. 

I  still  look  back  to  those  lonely  hours,  as  the  basis  of  much  that  is  strong 
and  resolute  in  my  character,  and  as  the  promoters,  if  not  originators,  of 
that  poetic  faculty  which,  however  limited  in  its  results,  has  been  my  chief 
comfort  and  resource  in  life — a  faculty  I  would  not  surrender  for  Victoria's 
crown,  were  I  obliged  to  fill  its  place  with  commonplace  and  inanity,  and 
which,  more  than  all  else,  has  reconciled  me  to  life,  and  assured  me  of  the 
certainty  of  a  glorious  immortality. 

A  great  orator  has  lately  in  his  eulog'mm  of  the  most  distinguished  states- 


124  WOMEN*    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

man  of  any  age,  in  his  zeal  for  those  qualities  which  peculiarly  appertain  to  the 
character  of  the  august  suhject  of  his  debate,  levelled  cold  and  cruel  blows  at 
the  peculiar  organization  to  which  we  give  the  name  of  "genius."'  When 
God  takes  back  his  gift  of  flowers,  limits  sunshine,  wipes  out  the  rainbow, 
dashes  from  the  shell  and  gem  their  lustre,  and  from  the  bird  the  hues  of  his 
glorious  plumage,  replacing  these  with  cold,  utilitarian  coloring;  when  the 
love  of  the  beautiful — the  germ  of  all  poetic  power — ceases  to  lift  the  human 
heart  to  Him  who  adorned  the  world  with  such  exquisite  consideration  for 
this  master  passion  of  his  noblest  creatures — including,  as  it  does,  love, 
heroism,  religion,  glory, — then,  and  not  until  then,  shall  I  believe  that  genius 
is  superfluous;  and  that  in  the  eyes  of  the  Creator  it  is  of  little  or  no  avail! 

Dr.  Kane,  sailing  on  the  lonely  arctic  seas,  renders  meet  tribute  to  the 
comfort  that  genius  gives  him ;  I  use  the  word  advisedly  ! 

"None,"  says  lie,  ''who  have  not  read  the  poems  of  Tennyson,  under 
circumstances  of  isolation  like  those  that  surrounded  me,  can  form  any  idea 
of  the  consolation  to  be  derived  from  their  perusal."' 

These  are  not  his  exact  words — I  do  not  own  these  volumes — but  any  one 
can  find  the  passage  I  refer  to  with  such  a  clew.  Following  out  the  impulse 
of  his  gratitude,  he  calls  by  the  name  of  his  favorite  poet,  the  wondrous 
column  of  green  basalt  that  stands  forth  as  it'  made  by  the  hand  of  human 
art,  bare  and  terrific  even  in  its  strange  solitary  grandeur,  from  the  cold, 
grey  rocks  around  it,  and  looms  above  the  lonely  glassy  ocean  of  that  Arctic 
zone.  This  he  calls  "  Tennyson's  Monument."  What  prouder  tribute  has 
poet  ever  received? 

Dear  as  were  those  solitary  hours  to  me,  and  life-giving  as  they  proved 
themselves,  the  tendency  of  my  nature  was  essentially  social  and  loyal;  and, 
had  I  been  permitted  to  do  so,  I  would  have  attached  myself  warmly  and 
entirely  to  my  grandmother's  society,  and  even  service.  But,  while  with 
one  hand  she  drew  me  to  her,  with  the  other  she  put  me  away — gently,  but 
no  less  decidedly. 

Her  conversation  was  especially  delightful  to  me  —  so  animated,  so 
varied,  so  natural,  so  full  of  detail,  that  it  was  like  reading  a  pleasant  book 
to  listen  to  it.  One  is  said,  I  know,  oftener  in  derision  than  in  praise,  to 
''talk  like  a  book;"'  but  this  is  a  prejudice  derived  from  old  times,  when 
books  were  oftenest  prating  and  pedantic  oracles.  Who  would  not  like  to 
hear  such  conversation  daily,  as  we  meet  with  in  the  pages  of  many  modern 
novels  ?  Terse,  sparkling,  and  graphic  illustrations  of  nature  itself,  compared 
to  which  all  ancient  dialogues  seem  flat  and  affected! 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  125 


EELIGION. 

Temperament  has,  after  all,  more  to  do  with  religion  than  theologians 
are  willing  to  acknowledge,  and  there  certainly  was  in  my  very  veins  some 
principle  antagonistic  in  its  nature  to  Catholicism.  I  was  made,  I  think,  of 
tin >se  elements  from  which  new  churches,  new  forms  of  government  have 
sprung.  It  was  natural  to  me  to  investigate  motives,  and  demand  reasons 
for  action  ;  and  if  I  was  a  poor  logician,  I  was,  at  all  events,  no  sophist,  no 
self-deluder ;  what  I  believed  was  a  part  of  my  own  being. 

I  have  heard  people  talk  of  choosing  a  religion,  as  they  would  select  a 
garment,  and  marvelled  at  the  fallacy !  Oh,  who  can  choose  a  conviction ; 
or  who  would  not,  if  this  were  possible,  believe  in  the  comforting  doctrines 
of  the  universalist  or  the  epicurean? 

No !  religion  is  made  of  sterner  stuff!  We  cannot  banish  or  deny  the 
presence  of  evil ;  it  is  here — we  can  only  contend  against  it,  with  what 
limited  power  we  have,  and  what  divine  assistance  we  receive.  We  cannot 
shut  out  the  bitter  belief  in  the  vast  inequality  of  human  lots,  prate  as 
philosophers  may  of  compensation  on  earth  ;  nor  fail  to  perceive  the  absence 
of  all  justice  in  the  visible  dispensations  of  Providence.  Else  would  no  vir- 
tuous man  go  down  in  the  fiery  sea  of  sorrow  and  adversity ;  else  would  no 
icy-hearted  villain  prosper!  That  these  things  are,  none  can  deny — that 
noble  lives  are  failures,  that  base  ones  are  crowned  with  success ;  let  Kossuth 
— let  Louis  Napoleon  testify,  for  want  of  fitter  examples,  known  to  all  men ! 
But  we  need  not  stop  with  public  characters  like  these.  In  every  sphere  of 
life  there  are  innumerable  instances  of  this  kind,  and  when  we  try  to  per- 
suade ourselves  that  there  is  no  truth  in  the  dark  doctrines  of  fate  and 
election,  let  tis  reflect  on  these  manifest  inconsistencies,  before  our  daily 
eyes. 

Yet  who  wants  to  believe  in  these  doctrines — who  would  incline  to  it  if 
it  were  possible  to  waive  them  away  by  any  process  of  human  reasoning  or 
self-deception  !  And  why  should  any  belief,  after  all,  however  gloomy  and 
oppressive  in  its  tendency,  make  us,  for  one  moment,  falter  in  our  faith  in, 
and  perfect  love  for  God? 

For  the  future  is  in  his  hand  of  which  we  know  nothing  now,  and  the 
instinct  is  in  all  hearts,  to  trust  in  its  mighty  developments,  its  compensa- 
tions, its  unerring  fidelity  to,  and  correspondence  with  the  past,  so  that  they 
may  be  said  to  represent  the  two  scales  of  a  balance — one  before  us,  with  it< 


120  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

heavy  and  uncomprehensive  measure  of  good  or  ill — the  other  with   its 
unseen  freight  far  in  eternity. 

Yet  happy  those  who,  closing  their  eyes  on  its  complicated  inconsistency, 
and  seeing  its  sublime  comfort,  and  loving  charity  alone,  bow  down  and 
worship  at  the  foot  of  the  Catholic  cross!  Happy  those  who  deem  that  sin 
can  be  forgiven  by  proxy,  and  the  gates  of  heaven  entered  by  death-bed 
repentance!  These  are  the  beings  whom  the  rapture  of  heaven  possesses 
even  on  earth,  and  who  bear  most  often,  lightly  the  burden  of  sin  and  sorrow 
SO  crushing  to  the  sterner  thinkers.  Nature  had  never  intended  me  to  be 
one  of  these. 

THE  SECRET  CHAMBER  AND  ITS  OCCUPANT. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  ponderous  rosewood  bedstead,  very 
dark  from  age,  and  shaped  like  a  lengthened  throne,  and  so  placed  ;ts  to  give 
its  inmate  whatever  advantage  of  light  and  air  existed  in  that  dusky 
atmosphere. 

He  lay  on  his  snow-white  bed,  propped  with  pillows  scarce  paler  than 
himself,  that  remarkable  man.  whose  face  seemed  to  have  become  familiar  to 
me  in  one  brief  gaze  of  terror  and  mystery.  He  was  sleeping  when  my 
grandmother  led  me  to  bis  couch,  and  with  noiseless  step  and  lifted  finger 
impressed  on  me  the  necessity  of  silence — sleeping  the  tranquil  sleep  of  ill  - 
aess  merged  into  debility. 

"Dr.  Quintil  pronounces  this  a  saving  slumber,"  she  whispered,  ''if  not 
interrupted;  yet  if  any  observable  change  occurs  during  its  continuance  you 
must  not  hesitate  to  call  him.  He  lies  at  present  on  the  sofa  in  the  opposite 
room,  having  watched  all  night;  observe  our  patient  closely,  Lilian;  I  con- 
fide all  to  you!" 

She  withdrew,  and  I  sat  close  by  his  side,  watching  a  sleep  that  closely 
simulated  that  of  death  itself — so  profound,  so  tranquil  was  it — and  poring 
on  his  face,  as  though  it  were  a  book  opened  before  me.  An  expression  of 
tender  repose  (if  I  may  so  express  it)  lingered  over  the  thin,  straight  fea- 
tures, almost  transparent  from  disease. 

The  grey  hair,  singularly  indicative  of  strength  and  vitality,  and  bearing 
unmistakable  traces  of  its  original  color,  lay  loose  and  wavy  on  the  pillow. 
Lung  ;is  it  had  seemed  before,  it  had  probably  grown  to  an  unusual  length 
during  his  sickness,  and  now  imparted  an  almost  womanish  character  to  his 
face  and  head. 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  127 

His  slender  and  elegantly  formed  hands  were  closed  lightly  on  his  breast, 

as  those  of  the  dead  are  often  placed.  A  white  napkin  lay  at  his  side,  folded 
and  glossy ;  but  streaked  and  dappled  with  blood  fresh  from  his  bleeding 
lungs — a  few  Strombio  roses  were  thrown  carelessly  by  it,  as  if  dropped 
from  nerveless  fingers. 

Beside  him,  on  a  small  table,  was  a  flask  of  ice-water,  a  goblet  of  antique 
form,  some  grapes  on  a  plateau  of  fine  china,  and  a  vial  of  pyramidal  shape, 
filled  with  a  liquid  of  such  brilliant  amber-color,  that  it  seemed  almost  to 
diffuse  rays  of  light  around  it. 

During  that  long  watch,  my  eyes  became  frequently  riveted  on  this  vial, 
and  attracted  by  its  lambent  lustre,  I  raised  it  between  them  and  the  light, 
so  as  to  scrutinize  the  contents.  I  saw  with  an  almost  fascinated  interest 
what  appeared  to  be  a  hair  of  gold,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the  liquid  like 
a  miniature  serpent.  Now  rising  to  the  top  in  spiral  lines,  as  if  trying  to 
escape  from  its  confinement — then  collapsing  in  a  ring  to  the  bottom  of  the 
wide-based  vial. 

On  the  bottle  a  label  was  pasted,  on  which  was  inscribed  in  small,  clear 
Italian  characters,  the  "  elixir  of  goM."  This,  then,  was  that  marvellous 
remedy,  of  which  I  had  recently  heard,  for  the  first  time,  with  more  of  inte- 
rest than  faith  I  must  confess  !  Here,  then,  was  the  realization  of  what  had 
appeared  to  me  but  a  mere  fable ! 

A  gentleman  with  whom  we  had  met  in  travelling,  a  peculiar  and  strik- 
ing person,  whose  name  and  mien  indicated  a  foreign  origin,  had  told  Dr. 
Quintil  a  story  in  my  presence,  illustrative  of  the  immediate  efficacy  of  this 
medicine. 

A  child  lay  dying  in  a  peasant's  house,  in  which  a  horseman  sought  tem- 
porary refuge  from  the  storm  which  raged  without.  Dope  was  over,  and 
the  death-struggle  approached,  the  eyes  were  glazed  and  half-rolled  back  in 
their  orbits— cold  dew  stood  on  the  clammy  face,  the  power  of  speech,  of 
deglutition  itself  was  gone,  when  the  stranger  asked  permission  to  pour  a 
few  drops  from  a  small  vial  he  drew  from  his  bosom  into  the  parted  lips  of 
the  child.  The  request  was  granted,  and  at  short  intervals  he  was  allowed 
to  repeat  the  experiment. 

The  subtle  drug  seemed  to  insinuate  itself  into  the  system  without  the 
assistance  of  the  epiglottis;  but,  for  a  time,  exerted  little  opposing  influence 
against  the  power  of  the  conqueror.  He  described  the  marvellous  and  sud- 
den change  that  at  last  occurred— the  returning  hues  of  life,  the  renewed 
intelligence  of  the   eye,  the   strength   restored   as  if  by  magic.     In   an   hour 


12S  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

later  the  child  sat  up  in  bed  and  called  for  food,  and  the  next  day  rose  to  its 
feet  convalescent!     Such  was  the  tale. 

Something  in  the  graphic  manner  of  the  narrator  left  the  impression  on 
my  mind,  that  he  himself  was  the  benefactor  thus  referred  to,  and  I  smiled 
at  the  faith  the  empiric  lent  to  the  work  of  his  own  hands — doubting  not 
for  a  moment,  that  the  recovery  he  described  had  taken  place  from  natural 
causes. 

And  now  my  incredulity  seemed  reasonably  confirmed.  Here  was  a 
dying  man  (he  certainly  seemed  so  to  me)  with  this  wondrous  yet  unavailing 
remedy  in  reach ! 

Yet  what  a  radiantly  beautiful  fluid  it  was! 

Had  it  been  called  "essence  of  sunshine,"  it  would  not  have  surprised 
me,  for  inherent  radiance  it  certainly  seemed  to  contain.  I  had  just  time  to 
set  the  vial  down,  which  I  had  raised  between  my  vision  and  the  line  of  light 
that  came  through  the  slightly  opened  door,  when  he  awoke,  coughing 
violently  and  fixed  bis  glittering  eyes  full  on  my  face. 

Aroused  by  the  shrill  summons,  or  perhaps  already  watching  for  such  a 
signal,  Dr.  Quintil  came  almost  instantly  to  his  assistance,  and  sustained  him 
in  his  arms ;  at  the  same  time  whispering  to  me  to  withdraw  from  the  cham- 
ber, and  remain  without  while  the  paroxysm  lasted. 

Fabius  had  arranged  my  breakfast  in  the  hall,  on  that  great  round  table, 
from  which  books  and  papers  were  now  cleared  away,  that  stood  beneath 
the  skylight,  and  it  wTas  truly  acceptable,  for  the  day  was  on  the  tide,  and  I 
had  not  tasted  food  since  the  previous  evening;  I  was  half  famished;  yet  I 
had  hardly  time  to  swallow  a  few  mouthfuls,  and  drink  my  coffee,  when 
Dr.  Quintil  called  me  from  within. 

I  returned  greatly  agitated.  He  was  awake ;  he  would  speak  to  me. 
He,  my  mother's  father !  It  was  like  the  recognition  of  spirits  in  another 
world — ineffable,  overpowering. 

I  advanced  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  stood  thrilled,  yet  mutely  before 
him. 

"Come  nearer,  my  love.''  he  said,  extending  one  long,  thin  hand  to  me, 
that  fell  in  the  next  instant  almost  lifeless  beside  him.  "  Nearer,  that  I  may 
discern  your  features  distinctly.  Lilian,  the  child  of  Morna,"  be  murmured, 
"the  daughter  of  my  child!" 

"Even  so,  grandfather,"  I  said,  as  solemnly  as  ever  a  devotee  gave  back 
"Amen"  to  prayer  and  kneeling.  I  bowed  my  head  on  his  nerveless  hand, 
and  my  nature  took  on  her  new  allegiance. 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  129 

The  very  sound  of  his  voice— clear,  sweet,  slightly  tremulous  at  times, 
infinitely  pathetic  in  its  quality — vibrated  through  my  whole  being,  as  no 
sound,  whether  of  speech  or  music,  had  ever  done  before.  I  felt  within  ine 
then  the  power,  won  from  the  electric  shock,  of  the  clashing  chains  of  kin- 
dred in  our  veins ;  perchance  to  serve  him  faithfully  from  that  hour  with 
any  sacrifice  that  he  might  see  fit  to  demand,  or  that  I  might  find  it  possible 
to  make. 

Yet,  why  was  this?  Others  as  nearly  related  to  me  had  awakened  no 
parallel  enthusiasm  in  my  soul.  I  have  done  wrong  perhaps  in  thinking  that 
it  was  the  power  of  blood  that  stirred  me  thus.  Was  it  not  rather  some  fine 
magnetic  influence  totally  independent  of  mere  relationship,  that  rendered 
every  faculty  of  my  being  as  responsive  to  his  will  as  the  keys  of  the  lute  to 
the  touch  of  the  master  player? 

I  know  not  how  long  I  continued  kneeling  and  praying  silently  beside 
him — if  prayer  might  be  called  that  almost  unformed  communing  of  my  soul 
with  God — more  a  mood  than  an  utterance.  He  was  now  forbidden  to 
speak  ;  yet  when  I  arose  and  stood  beside  him  again,  his  beaming  eye  and 
smile  were  more  eloquent  than  words.     They  seemed  to  say : 

'•  Welcome,  my  love,  to  this  solitary  life  of  mine,  art  thou,  as  morning  ti> 
the  sleepless,  or  showers  to  the  sear  grass.  Henceforth  thy  being  shall  be 
blended  with  my  own,  and  the  shadow  that  envelops  me  fall  over  thee  also, 
even  as  from  thy  young  existence,  some  light  and  joy  shall  gild  the  clouds 
of  mine.  For  of  this  nature  is  the  mighty  and  inscrutable  bond  of 
blood." 

Such,  to  my  excited  imagination,  seemed  the  meaning,  his  mute  but  qui- 
vering features  sought  to  convey;  sucli  the  impression  my  mind  received 
from  their  expression — never  to  leave  it  more. 

Yet  again  I  question,  why  was  this? 


ELIXIR    OF    GOLD    AND    BLOOD. 

He  held  my  wrists  in  his  grasp,  silently  for  a  time.  I  felt  that  he  was 
counting  my  pulses. 

"There  is  health  enough  in  these  young  veins,"  he  said,  "to  justify  me 
in  making  the  request  I  have  sent  for  you  to  prefer.  The  rich  life-blood 
abounds  here  even  to  superfluity.     Lilian,  you  have  blood,  and  to  spare." 

"Blood,   grandfather!"  I  repeated,  struggling  slightly  to  withdraw  my 

9 


130  WOMEN*    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

arm.  "  You  do  not  want  my  blood,  I  hope  ?  Is  he  insane,  after  all  ?"  was 
the  rapid  thought  that  swept  through  me,  "and  is  this  a  part  of  the  past,  so 
long  esteemed  a  crime,  mere  madness  at  last  ?" 

He  relinquished  his  hold  immediately,  and  said,  with  evident  mortifica- 
tion :  "  You  surely  do  not  think  I  mean  to  harm  you,  Lilian  ?" 

I  stood  before  him  with  my  head  cast  down,  as  the  guilty  stand  before 
their  accusers. 

"No,  no  indeed,"  I  murmured,  "I  know  you  would  not  harm  me,  unless 
— unless  " 

"  Unless  I  were  mad,  Lilian  ;  is  that  what  you  would  say?"  he  asked,  still 
surveying  me  with  his  piercing,  reproachful  eyes;  then  waiting  a  moment 
for  a  reply,  which  never  came,  he  added,  "you  are  right  there;  but  I  am 
not  mad — have  absolutely  no  capacity  for  madness,  child.  Listen,  I  only 
ask  you  for  one  cup  of  that  generous  blood,  that  flowed  from  my  veins  in  the 
beginning." 

"This  is  a  strange  fancy  of  yours,  grandfather — a  horrible  fancy.  Do  you 
drink  blood?  Are  you  a  vampire?"  I  tried  to  smile,  but  shuddered  in  the 
attempt.  "I  must  not  seem  afraid,"  I  thought,  "for  if  this  be  mania,  such 
evidence  would  increase  it ;  and  yet  how  can  Fabius  seem  so  unconcerned, 
if  he  meditates  any  horrible  thing?  Perhaps  they  are  going  to  unite  and 
sacrifice  me." 

In  spite  of  my  better  resolution,  I  felt  myself  trembling  at  the  thought  of 
playing  the  part  of  an  unwilling  Iphigenia.  Fortunately,  this  passed 
unobserved. 

"Hear  me  dispassionately,"  he  said;  "then  decide  as  you  will.  I  ask 
your  assistance  in  the  preparation  of  a  remedy,  on  which  my  feeble  life 
depends.  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  drawing  from  my  own  veins,  or  those 
of  Fabius,  the  required  amount  of  fluid  to  complete  my  preparation  ;  but  since 
my  long  illness,  my  strength  has  failed.  His,  too,  declines,  and  unless  the 
properties  of  perfect  health  be  found  in  the  blood  thus  used,  it  is  of  little  or 
no  avail.  To-day  I  threw  three  hundred  sovereigns,  the  last  of  my  treasure, 
in  the  crucibles.  All  this  will  be  wasted,  unless  I  obtain  the  necessary 
ingredient  wherewith  to  divide  the  smoldering  mass  from  the  ethereal  spirit 
that  makes  the  elixir." 

"  Why  not  nsesthe  blood  of  a  lamb,  or  of  a  goat,  grandfather;  or  beef's 
blood,  as  I  have  heard  they  do  in  sugar  refineries  ?  These  can  be  easily  pro- 
cured, and  human  nature  spared  the  horror  of  such  an  experiment." 

"Because  the  chemical  affinities  are  all  wanting  in  these,  that  success 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  131 

depends  on  ;  but,  Lilian,  I  will  not  urge  you  further;  I  will  not  ask  again, 
even  to  save  my  own  life,  for  a  gill  of  the  blood  I  gave  you." 

I  was  nerved  to  sudden  determination  by  these  words. 

"Be  sure  you  take  no  other,  grandfather,"  I  said,  hazarding  a  feeble  jest 
to  raise  my  own  courage.  ''Spare  my  De  Courey  blood,  I  implore  you;" 
and,  baring  my  arm,  I  stretched  it  forth,  and  turned  away. 

A  small  porcelain  urn  was  brought  forward,  and  Fabius  breathed  a  vein 
with  a  dexterity  that  manifested  practice.  I  had  just  begun  to  feel  slightly 
faint  and  giddy,  when  my  grandfather  staunched  the  orifice,  and  bound  my 
arm  himself  with  bandages,  in  readiness  for  the  occasion  ;  first  touching  the 
wounded  vein  with  a  liquid  which  removed  soreness  from  the  arm,  and 
prevented  all  subsequent  inconvenience. 

"  Aye,  Lilian,  this  will  do,"  he  said ;  "  this  young  and  ruddy  blood  is 
what  I  needed.  Do  you  know,  child,  that  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when 
he  who  can  afford  to  purchase  such  relays  for  his  veins  weekly,  or  even 
monthly,  may  put  off  death  indefinitely  ?  The  surgeon  will  let  young  blood 
into  the  old  man's  veins  then,  as  easily  as  the  barber  trims  his  beard  now. 
and  it  will  be  a  part  of  the  received  hygeian  system  to  do  this,  indispensable 
even  to  the  toilet  of  every  sexagenarian." 

He  held  the  all  but  transparent  cup  between  his  eyes  and  the  brilliant 
lamps.  ''It  is  perfect,"  continued  he,  "every  globule  round  as  a  drop  of 
rain.  I  fear  I  have  not  spared  your  De  Courey  blood,  as  you  requested,  how- 
ever. I  think  I  discern  a  mixture ;  but  come,  you  shall  see  the  charm  work. 
Medea  was  a  bungler  compared  with  Erastus  Bouverie !" 

He  led  me  to  the  crucible,  red  hot  over  its  charcoal  furnace,  and,  lifting 
the  lid,  showed  me  the  dull,  yellow,  molten  mass  within. 

"  Now  look,  Lilian." 

He  took  from  the  marble  slab,  or  counter,  as  I  have  elsewhere  called  it, 
a  vial  of  white  liquid,  which,  when  opened,  emitted  the  odoriferous,  and,  to 
me,  grateful  and  reviving  smell  of  almonds,  and  bending  over  the  crucible, 
poured  in  carefnlly  about  half  the  contents  of  the  bottle,  quickly  replacing 
the  close-fitting  glass  stopper. 

Instantly  the  seething  mass  stood  still,  a  few  large  bubbles  rose,  flashed, 
dispersed,  and  a  dull  violet  flame  seemed  to  flit  and  flicker  over  the  surface. 

"Now,  Lilian,  all  is  ready.  Look  attentively  and  behold  the  crisis!" 
His  face  was  rigid  as  steel  as  he  dashed  in  the  blood. 

The  flame  died  out,  the  whole  mass  seemed  to  shudder  and  recoil ;  then 
separate  as  instantaneously  as  I  have  seen  the  curd  and  whey  of  milk  divide 


132  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

under  the  action  of  an  acid,  or,  to  use  a  grandiose  comparison,  as  earth  and 
sea  might  have  divided  in  the  beginning  of  time.  A  mass  of  substance  was 
precipitated  to  the  bottom  of  the  crucible,  and  oh,  wondrous  vision !  in  the 
clear,  amber-colored  fluid  above,  myriads  of  tiny  serpents  of  flashing  light 
seemed  gliding,  qnivering,  coiling  in  ring  after  ring,  and  springing  in  spiral 
movements  to  the  surface ! 

"It  is  the  vital  principle  at  work,"  he  said,  in  suppressed  tones,  "  electri- 
fying the  duller  agent.  The  combination  will  lie  more  than  usually  perfect. 
The  blood  of  genius  works  well!  Fabius,  extinguish  the  fires."  His  voice 
was  low  and  husky. 

He  spoke  no  more  until  this  was  done ;  then  steadily  and  slowly,  and 
witli  every  nerve  strained  to  its  fullest  tension  in  the  anxiety  of  the  moment 
— for  much  depended  on  the  accuracy  of  this  movement — he  poured  into  a 
silver  howl  the  wonderful  elixir,  preparatory  to  sealing  it  in  crystal  vials. 


LEGEND    OF   THE    INDIAN    CHAMBER. 

PART    FIRST. 

"  Basil  !  set  my  house  in  order, 

For,  when  1  return  to-day,  . 
I  shall  bring  with  me  a  stranger. 

Tarrying  on  his  homeward  way. 
Open  fling  the  Indian  Chamber, 

And  the  arras  free  from  mold  ; 
There  array  a  goodly  banquet, 

Such  as  cheered  my  sires  of  old ; 
When,  from  chase  or  war  returning, 

Dukes  and  princes  of  my  line. 
From  the  evening  till  the  morning, 

Filled  the  cup  and  drained  the  wine." 

"  Master,  in  thy  lordly  castle 

There  are  many  halls  of  pride, 
Where  no  damps  the  Avails  encumber — 
Where  no  spells  of  gloom  abide. 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  133 

In  the  gallery  of  the  Titans, 

Iu  the  hall  of  Count  Lothaire, 
In  the  grand  saloon  of  columns, 

Better  had  ye  banquet  there. 
But  the  dreary  Indian  Chamber, 

Oh  !  bethink  you,  master  mine — 
There  have  slept,  in  mortal  slumber, 

All  the  princes  of  your  line. 

"  There  the  mourners  ever  gather, 

Forth  to  bear  the  noble  dead- 
There  you  saw  your  stately  lather, 

And  your  noble  brother  laid  ; 
There,  save  in  these  times  of  anguish, 

Never,  since  my  life  began, 
Entered  in  a  ray  of  sunlight, 

Or  the  step  of  mortal  man. 
And  the  sounds  of  mystic  meaning — 

Master !  need  I  speak  of  these  ? — 
Which  from  that  lone  eastern  chamber 

Meet  the  ear — the  spirit  freeze!" 

With  a  brow  of  haughty  pallor, 

Straight  the  Baron  turned  away, 
In  a  scornful  accent  saying, 

'"Tis  my  mandate,  slave  !  obey." 
Then  in  haste,  with  gloomy  aspect, 

Forth  he  went  upon  his  steed, 
Rushing  headlong  on  his  pathway, 

Like  an  evil  spirit  freed. 
And  with  sad  and  stricken  spirit, 

Basil  watched  his  lord  depart, 
While  a  dark  and  evil  omen, 

Hearse-like,  pressed  upon  his  heart. 

Long  lie  lingered  at  the  portal, 

Bound  as  with  a  gloomy  dream  ; 
Long  he  looked  upon  the  landscape, 

Which  before  him  ceased  to  seem  ; 


134  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Then,  with  low  and  prayerful  mutterings, 

Shaking  oft  his  tresses  grey, 
Clasping  oft  his  withered  fingers, 

Basil  went  upon  his  way. 
Passed  he  up  the  ancient  stairway, 

Groped  he  through  the  echoing  aisle, 
Where,  to  seek  the  olden  chapel, 

Oft  had  passed  a  kingly  file. 

Climhed  he  the  remotest  turret 

Of  that  castle  grand  and  vast, 
And  before  the  Indian  Chamber 

Wearily  he  paused  at  last ; 
Yes,  a  moment  there  he  faltered, 

He  who  oft  had  stood  the  shock 
Of  the  hottest,  fiercest  battle, 

Firm  as  a  primeval  rock. 
On  the  bolt  his  fingers  trembled. 

Scarcely  could  their  strength  unclose 
The  immense  and  ponderous  fastening, 

Rusted  by  its  long  repose. 

Yet  a  moment — yet  a  moment, 

Ere  the  door  was  open  flung, 
Paused  the  old  and  awe-struck  Basil, 

Fervent  aves  on  his  tongue. 
As  if  Heaven  his  prayer  had  answered, 

Peace  and  comfort  round  him  stole, 
And  a  calm  and  lofty  courage 

Nerved  his  hand  and  filled  bis  soul. 
With  a  slight,  yet  sudden  effort, 

Back  the  oaken  door  he  threw, 
And  upon  the  darkened  threshold 

Stood  the  fearful  place  to  view. 

Dark  and  dreary  was  that  chamber, 
Which  in  lengthened  gloom  appeared, 

With  its  dark  and  mystic  arras, 

Wrought  in  symbols  wild  and  weird. 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WAKFIELD.  135 

Life-like  were  the  gorgeous  figures, 

Giaut-like  they  seemed  to  loom 
In  the  dim,  imperfect  twilight 

Of  that  long-forsaken  room. 
Warily  the  old  man  entered — 

With  a  solemn  step  he  trod 
Through  the  drear  and  dark  apartment, 

Trusting  to  his  Father's  God. 

In  the  ample  hearth  he  kindled 

Brands  that,  in  departed  days, 
Quenched  and  blackened,  had  been  left  there — 

Strange  and  ghostly  seemed  their  blaze. 
And  upon  the  marble  table 

Ranged  the  regal  store  of  plate, 
And  arrayed  the  goodly  banquet, 

As  became  his  master's  state  : 
Urn  and  vase  and  chalice  brimming 

With  the  floods  of  ruby  wine, 
As  beseemed  the  dukes  and  princes 

Of  that  mighty  Norman  line. 

Then  he  silently  betook  him 

To  his  first  appointed  task — 
Wiping  from  the  ancient  arras 

Many  a  spot  of  mold  and  mask. 
But  the  dark  and  loathing  horror, 

It  befits  me  not  to  speak, 
Which,  while  still  his  task  pursuing, 

Shook  his  hand,  and  blanched  his  cheek; 
For  he  could  not  but  remember 

How,  in  long  departed  years, 
Woven  was  that  wondrous  fabric 

By  the  spells  of  Indian  seers. 

Wrought  witli  themes  of  Hindoo  story, 

Life-like,  in  their  coloring  bold. 
Yemen's  tall,  and  Vishnu's  glory, 

Was  that  arras  (plaint  and  old; 


Igg  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Juggernaut's  remorseless  chariot, 

Funeral  pyre,  and  temple  proud, 
Bungalow,  and  Rajah's  palace, 

With  their  strange  and  motley  crowd; 
Jungle,  low,  and  flower-crowned  river, 

Dancing  girls,  with  anklets  bright; 
These,  like  gorgeous  dreams  of  fever, 

Crowded  on  the  gazer's  sight. 

And  the  long  and  twisting  serpents, 

And  the  tigers  crouching,  grim, 
Seemed  the  dark  and  fearful  guardians 

Of  that  Indian  Chamber  dim. 
To  the  simple,  earnest  spirit 

Of  the  old  and  faithful  man, 
For  a  Christian  hand  to  touch  them, 

"Was  to  merit  Christian  ban. 
Saint  and  martyr  inly  calling, 

Still  he  wrought  his  master's  will, 
When  a  terror  more  appalling, 

Caused  his  very  veins  to  chill. 

In  that  dreary  Indian  Chamber, 

Strangely  grand  and  desolate, 
With  its  long  and  hearse-like  hangings, 

Stood  a  plumed  bed  of  state. 
Closed  around  with  solemn  mystery 

As  a  kingly  purple  pall, 
High  it  towered,  a  silent  history 

Of  departed  funeral. 
And  with  eyes  amazed — distended 

By  their  dread  and  spell-bound  look — 
Basil  gazed  in  stony  horror, 

Lo !  the  trailing  curtains  shook ! 

And  a  groan  of  hollow  anguish 
From  the  close-drawn  hangings  broke. 

As  if  one  for  ages  sleeping 
Suddenly  to  torture  woke — 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WAR  FIELD.  137 

God  of  terror !  slowly  parted 

By  a  wan  and  spectral  hand. 
Back  were  drawn  the  purple  curtains — 

Back,  as  with  a  spirit  wand. 
And  a  face  of  ghostly  beauty, 

With  its  dark  and  streaming  hair, 
And  its  eyes  of  ghoul-like  brightness, 

Seemed  upon  his  sense  to  glare. 

How  in  that  terrific  moment 

Basil's  senses  kept  their  throne, 
Is  alone  to  God  and  angels 

In  its  wondrous  mystery  known. 
How  he  gathered  faith  and  firmness 

To  uplift  his  aged  hand, 
And  address  the  disembodied, 

Man  may  never  understand. 
Save  that  in  the  ghostly  features 

Still  a  semblance  he  descried, 
To  the  high  and  lovely  lady, 

Who  had  been  his  master's  bride. 

"  In  the' name  of  God  the  Father, 

In  the  name  of  God  the  Son, 
In  the  name  of  all  good  angels, 

Speak  to  me  unearthly  one. 
Answer  why,  from  wave  returning. 

Moanest  thou  in  anguish  here ; 
Surely  for  some  holy  purpose 

Thou  art  suffered  to  appear. 
If  for  evil,  I  defy  thee, 

By  the  cross  upon  my  breast, 
By  my  faith  in  life  eternal, 

And  my  yearning  hope  for  rest." 

Then  with  moveless  lips  the  Phantom 

Spake  in  low  and  hollow  tones, 
As  if  shaped  to  words  and  meaning 

Were  the  night-wind's  hollow  moans. 


138 


WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

•■  Basil  !  darkly  was  I  murdered 
Sailing  on  the  River  Rhine, 
By  thy  harsh  and  ruthless  master, 

Last  of  an  illustrious  line. 
False  the  tale  his  lips  have  uttered, 

False  the  tears  his  eyes  have  shed— 
I  was  hurled  upon  the  water 
With  the  marks  of  murder  red. 

■•  Basil!  thou  art  good  and  faithful, 
Thee  I  charge,  by  hopes  divine, 
With  a  hundred  chanted  masses, 

Shrive  my  soul  by  Mary's  shrine. 
None  shall  stay  thy  holy  fervor, 

None  forbid  the  sacred  rite ; 
For  thy  master's  life  is  destined 

To  expire  in  crime  to-night." 
Fixed  in  awe,  the  aged  Basil 

Gazing  on  the  spectre  stood ; 
But  not  with  the  waning  Phantom 

Passed  away  his  icy  mood. 

Long  in  that  drear  Indian  Chamber, 

Like  a  form  of  sculptured  stone, 
Kept  the  old  and  awe-struck  servant, 

Vigil  terrible  and  lone  ; 
Till  the  sound  of  coming  footsteps, 

And  of  voices  loud  and  clear, 
And  of  ringing  spur  and  sabre, 

Smote  upon  his  spell-bound  ear. 
And  in  haste  the  door  was  opened, 
And  with  high  and  plumed  crest 
Entered  in  the  noble  Baron 
Ushering  in  a  foreign  guest. 

"  Basil !  all  is  dark  and  sombre, 
Cast  fresh  fagots  on  the  hearth, 
And  illume  the  silver  sconces 
To  preside  above  our  mirth. 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  139 

Let  the  chamber  glow  like  sunlight ; 

111  this  gloom  hefits  our  glee." 
Then  loud  laughed  the  stately  Baron, 

.Seldom,  seldom,  so  laughed  he. 
'Twas  a  sound  that  chilled  with  terror 

All  that  knew  his  nature  well : 
'Twas  the  Heaven's  electric  flashing 

Ere  the  bolt  of  lightning  fell. 


PART    SECOND. 

Now  the  chamber  glowed  like  sunlight- 
Strange  and  wondrous  in  that  glare, 

"Was  the  weird  and  ancient  arras. 
Were  the  figures  woven  there  ; 

Wavering  with  the  flickering  torches 
Seemed  the  motley  multitude  ; 

Twisting  serpent,  rolling  chariot, 
All  with  ghostly  life  imbued. 

Crouching  tiger — hideous  idol — 
All  that  grand  and  splendid  masque, 

Mixture  strange  of  truth  and  fable, 
As  in  sunshine  seemed  to  bask. 

"Long  have  I  sojourned  in  India," 

Thus  the  lofty  stranger  said  ; 
"  There,  for  wealth  and  idle  treasure, 

Health  and  youth  and  blood  I  shed. 
And  I  feel  like  one  who  dreameth, 

As  I  on  these  walls  survey, 
All  those  objects  so  familiar, 

Year  by  year  and  day  by  day." 
All  in  strange  and  blended  splendor, 

Like  a  vision  of  the  night — 
Never  yet  on  earthly  fabric 

Glowed  a  scene  so  rich  and  bright. 


]^0  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Fixed  upon  the  spell-wrought  arras 

Was  the  Eastern  stranger's  gaze ; 
With  his  head  and  heart  averted, 

There  he  dreamed  of  other  days. 
When,  with  eyes  of  watchful  terror, 

Basil  saw  his  master  glide, 
And  within  the  golden  chalice 

Brimming  with  its  purple  tide, 
With  a  stealthy,  glancing  motion, 

As  a  conjurer  works  his  spell, 
Oast  a  drop  of  ruhy  liquid 

From  a  tiny  rose-lipped  shell. 

"  Hither  turn,  thou  Eastern  dreamer, 

Pledge  me  in  this  golden  cup  ; 
'Tis  our  old  and  feudal  custon, 

He  who  tastes  must  quaff  it  up. 
Why  that  brow  of  gloom  and  pallor  ? 

Answer,  why  that  sudden  start?" 
Low  the  Eastern  stranger  muttered 

Of  the  spells  that  chilled  his  heart. 
"No !  my  eyes  have  not  deceived  me, 

As  I  fondly  dreamed  erewhile : 
See,  the  victim  bride  's  descending 

From  the  Rajah's  funeral  pile. 

"  See,  she  eometh,  wildly  streaming 

Are  her  robes ;  her  raven  hair  : 
See  she  eometh  ;  darkly  gleaming 

From  her  eyes  their  fell  despair. 
Now  she  stands  beside  the  altar, 

In  the  Brahmin's  sacred  shrine ; 
Now  a  jewelled  cup  she  seizes, 

Flames  within  it  seem  to  shine. 
Now,  O  God !  she  leaves  the  arras. 

Steps  upon  the  chamber  floor ; 
We  are  lost — the  prey  of  demons  ;— 

Baron !  I  will  gaze  no  more." 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  141 

Turned  away  the  soul-sick  stranger, 

Traversed  he  the  chamber  high, 
When  the  Baron's  awful  aspect 

Chained  his  step  and  fixed  his  eye. 
Never  from  his  memory  perished, 

Through  long  years  of  after  life 
In  the  camp,  the  court,  the  battle, 

That  remorseful  face  of  strife. 
Rooted  as  a  senseless  statue, 

In  his  hand  the  cup  of  gold  ; 
Lips  apart  and  eyes  distended, 

Stood  the  Norman  Baron  bold. 

High  her  cup  the  Phantom  lifted, 

Flames  within  it  seemed  to  roll ; 
Then  alone  these  words  she  uttered, 

"  Pledge  ,ne  in  thy  feudal  bowl."' 
Chained  and  speechless,  guest  and  servant 

Saw  the  Baron  drain  the  draught ; 
Saw  him  fall  convulsed  and  blackened, 

As  the  deadly  bowl  he  quaffed ; 
Saw  the  Phantom  bending  o'er  him, 

As  libation  on  his  head 
Slowly,  and  with  mien  exulting, 

From  the  cup  of  flames  she  shed. 

Then  a  shriek  of  smothered  anguish 

Rang  the  Indian  Chamber  through, 
While  a  gust  of  icy  bleakness 

From  the  waving  arras  blew. 
In  its  breath  the  watchers  shuddered, 

And  the  portals  open  rung, 
And  the  ample  hearth  was  darkened, 

As  if  ice  was  on  it  flung. 
And  the  lofty  torches  warring 

For  a  moment  in  the  blast, 
In  their  sconces  were  extinguished 

Leaving  darkness  o'er  the  past! 


142  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


THE   FOE'S   RETURN. 

She  deemed  him  dead  in  a  foreign  land, 

And  the  smile  came  hack  with  its  glory  hland; 

Lighting  her  face,  as  in  other  years, 

Ere  shame  and  sorrow  had  taught  her  tears. 

She  felt  like  a  bird  from  its  cage  let  free, 
Elate  ami  wild  with  her  ecstasy. 
Oh,  thought  of  horror !  that  death  should  hear 
A  balm  to  the  bosom  of  one  so  fair ! 

Yet,  deem  her  not  of  the  cold  and  vain  ; 
Long  had  she  bow'd  'neath  a  galling  chain  ; 
She  had  cower'd  to  the  dark  disgrace  and  wrong. 
That  demon  vengeance  had  threaten'd  long. 

And  when  she  knew  that  her  foe  was  gone, 
Her  life  awaked  to  a  second  dawn. 
He  was  dead!  that  secret  of  shame  and  gloom 
Lay  buried  deep  in  his  distant  tomb. 

He  was  dead!  and  no  more  could  that  dark  face  gleam 
Haggard  and  vengeful  in  thought  or  dream ; 
No  more  should  she  shudder  to  hear  his  name, 
With  a  chilling  heart  and  a  brow  of  flame. 

'Twas  a  horrid  joy  that  made  her  start. 
With  tearful  smiles  and  a  thankful  heart, 
As  she  thought  on  his  corse,  bloody  and  stark! 
And  his  lonesome  grave,  chilly  and  dark ! 

And  she  bless'd  the  steel  that  laid  him  low. 
And  she  sent  up  prayers  for  his  mortal  foe ; 
And  again  the  glory  of  earth  and  sky 
Came  flashing  back  to  her  heart  and  eye. 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  143 

She  stood  once  more  in  halls  of  pride, 
And  the  light  of  her  beauty  was  deified : 
And  she  seemed  to  the  eyes  of  men  a  star, 
Lovely,  but  lonely— flashing,  but  far. 

There  came  a  festal  of  splendor  rare, 
To  welcome  a  warrior  from  toil  and  care ; 
lie  had  been  afar  amid  Egypt's  sands, 
The  dauntless  leader  of  conquering  bands. 

lie  had  risen  by  his  sword  from  bis  humble  lot, 
And  his  youth  of  mystery  was  all  forgot ; 
He  had  won  a  name  mid  his  country's  peers — 
None  knew  the  tissue  of  his  earlier  years. 

And  when  he  stood  in  that  stately  room, 
His  brow  for  awhile  forgot  its  gloom — 
That  gathering  gloom,  that  had  lingered  long 
Over  those  features  haughty  and  strong. 

His  ear  inclined  to  the  measures  sweet, 
That  seem'd  the  echo  of  fairy  feet; 
And  haply  all  memory  of  other  time, 
Lay  hushed  awhile  in  that  breast  of  crime 

A  voice  sang  forth  from  the  festal  crowd, 

"  We  would  crown  thy  temples  with  laurel  proud; 

Hero,  bend,  that  thy  brow  may  wear 

A  garland  wreathed  by  the  young  and  fair." 

He  bow'd  his  head  with  a  mocking  smile, 
And  the  crowd  made  way  for  a  radiant  file ; 
Creatures  of  beauty,  stately  and  fair, 
With  flowing  robes,  and  with  floating  hair. 

And  one,  the  first  in  that  lovely  train, 
Like  a  form  that  gleams  from  a  Grecian  fane  ; 
With  her  antique  paleness,  her  godlike  mien, 
Fit  emblem  seemed  for  the  festive  queen. 


144  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

She  came  with  a  timid  and  stately  grace, 
The  noblest  and  last  of  a  princely  race; 
Unconscious  she,  as  the  lamb  led  up, 
To  fill  with  blood  the  libation  cup. 

And  now  they  are  standing  face  to  face; — 
Hath  a  dream  come  o'er  that  festive  place? 
One  of  those  visions  ghastly  and  wild. 
That  makes  her  shriek  like  a  thing  defiled  I 

She  raised  her  hand  to  her  wildered  brow ! 
'Tis  a  strange  delusion  !  she  murmured  low  ! 
'Tis  but  a  dream — and  she  strove  to  speak, 
But  her  heart  was  frozen,  her  voice  was  weak. 

She  met  his  gaze  with  its  fearful  spell. 
And  the  wreath  from  her  fainting  fingers  fell ; 
While  his  low  voice  hissed  on  her  shuddering  ear, 
"  We've  met  at  last,  slave  !  dost  thou  fear?" 

For  awhile  she  stood,  as  a  bird  is  said 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  the  serpent  dread ; 
Pale  and  still,  for  a  time  she  stood, 
In  the  midst  of  that  wondering  multitude. 

And  who  shall  say,  what  horrors  shook 
Her  parting  soul  in  that  long,  fixed  look  ? 
Death  had  deceived  her,  and  again  flung  back 
That  loathsome  form,  with  its  spirit  black  ! 

The  grave  had  yawned,  and  the  dead  unurned, 
And  with  ghastlier  horrors  the  foe  returned  ! 
He  who  had  crushed  her  for  years  in  dust, 
Had  rent  the  tomb  to  resume  his  trust! 

Such  might  have  been  her  tempestuous  thought. 
If  thought  in  that  chilling  bosom  wrought ; 
But  the  sudden  horror,  its  fear,  its  strife, 
Sever'd  the  strings  of  that  youthful  life. 


CATHARINE    AXXE    WARFIELD.  145 

And  prone  she  fell  on  that  floor  of  stone, 
With  a  gasping  sob,  and  a  long,  low  moan  ; 
Then  all  was  o'er.     Even  thus  she  died ! 
And  in  death  at  last — was  the  foe  defied  ! 


I   HAVE    SEEN    THIS    PLACE   BEFORE. 

I  have  seen  this  place  before — 

'Tis  a  strange,  mysterious  truth  ; 
Yet  my  foot  hath  never  pressed  this  shore, 

In  childhood  or  in  youth ; 
I  know  these  ruins  grey, 

I  know  these  cloisters  dim — 
My  soul  hath  been  in  these  walls  away, 

When  slumber  chains  each  limb. 

In  a  dream,  a  midnight  dream, 

I  have  stood  upon  this  heath, 
With  this  blue  and  winding  stream, 

And  the  lonely  vale  beneath ; 
The  same  dark  sky  was  there, 

With  its  bleak  shade  on  my  brow. 
The  same  deep  feeling  of  despair 

That  clings  about  me  now. 

Friend,  'tis  a  fearful  spell, 

That  binds  these  ruins  grey  ; 
Why  came  my  spirit  here  to  dwell. 

When  my  frame  was  far  away  \ 
Can  the  wild  and  soaring  soul 

Go  out  on  its  eagle  sweep, 
And  traverse  earth  without  control. 

While  the  frame  is  wrapt  in  sleep  ? 

Hath  memory  caught  a  gleam 
From  a  life  whose  term  is  o'er. 

And  borne  it  back  in  that  mystic  dream- 
Say,  have  I  lived  before  ? 
10 


146  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Or  was  prophetic  power 
To  that  midnight  vision  lent? 

Is  my  fate  hound  up  in  this  ruined  tower  i 
Speak  !  thou  art  eloquent. 


MADELINE. 

All  day  that  name  has  haunted  me — 

That  sweet  and  gentle  name — 
Like  some  deep  olden  melody, 

Forgotten  long  hy  fame, 
Which  in  one  unforgetting  heart 

Is  loved  and  prized  alone  ; 
Beautiful  from  the  thoughts  that  start 

To  life  with  every  tone. 

Oh  Madeline ! — dear  Madeline ! 

Thy  name  hath  still  a  spell 
To  lead  me  from  this  passing  scene, 

Back  with  the  past  to  dwell. 
And  when  I  hear  that  gentle  word, 

So  beautiful  to  me, 
Wild  tears  within  my  heart  are  stirred, 

I  yearn  to  he  with  thee. 

Thou  hast  a  foreign  grave,  my  friend, 

A  lone  Italian  bed  ; — 
Oh !  do  green  trees  above  thee  bend  '. 

Are  blossoms  o'er  thee  shed  ? 
Or  do  the  wild  rank  weeds  alone, 

In  all  their  southern  bloom, 
Clamber  around  the  simple  stone 

They  placed  to  mark  thy  tomb  ? 

It  is  not  there  that  thou  should'st  sleep, 

Xor  yet  in  vault  or  aisle. 
Where  the  sweet  rain  may  never  weep, 

The  glad  sun  never  smile. 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  147 

In  that  lone  dell  where  clings  the  moss, 

Hid  from  the  burning  noon, 
Where  evermore  a  fountain  voice 

Singeth  the  same  low  tune  ; 

Where  the  wild  flowers  grow  tall  and  fair 

In  the  sun-chequered  shade, 
And  the  song  of  birds  is  in  the  air, 

Should  thy  low  grave  be  made. 
I  would  that  I  could  share  thy  sleep ; 

I  sicken  to  depart : 
I'm  weary  of  the  thoughts  that  keep 

Their  vigils  in  my  heart. 

I'm  weary  of  the  daily  care, 

The  hourly  dread  and  strife, 
The  joys  that  pall,  the  dreams  that  wear 

The  energies  of  life  ; 
I'm  weary  of  the  light  and  vain. 

That  still  to  me  are  dear ; 
The  hearts  too  weak  to  give  again 

The  love  I  lavish  here. 

1  meet  on  earth  no  sympathies ; 

My  spirit  stands  alone ; 
I  see  with  deeper,  sadder  eyes, 

Than  those  around  me  thrown. 
My  smiles  are  sadder  than  my  tears ; 

My  sky  is  overcast ; 
I  live  with  dreams  of  other  years, 

And  memories  of  the  past. 

Even  as  I  sit  and  dream  alone 

Within  this  antique  hall, 
With  its  dim  echoing  floor  of  stone, 

Its  dark  empannelled  wall, 
With  its  neglected  glimmering  hearth, 

Its  twilight  grey  and  drear. 
Amid  my  lone  and  voiceless  dearth 

I  dream  that  thou  art  here. 


14S  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

I  think  I  still  can  see  thee  stand 

Amid  the  dying  light ; 
Still  hear  thy  voice,  still  touch  thy  hand. 

As  on  that  parting  night; 
For  wheresoe'er  thy  step  hath  been, 

Where'er  thy  voice  was  free, 
To  me — to  me — dear  Madeline, 

Thou  seemest  still  to  be. 


UNHOLY  LOVE. 

I  will  not  think  of  him — I'll  pace 

This  old  and  ruined  hall  ; 
And  dream  of  that  illustrious  race, 

Whose  pictures  line  the  wall. 
And  from  their  dark  and  haughty  eyes, 

Though  faded  now,  and  dim, 
A  better  spirit  shall  arise — 

I  will  not  think  of  him. 

I  may  not  think  of  him  !   I'll  stand 

Beneath  those  branching  elms; 
And  drink  the  sunlight  soft  and  bland, 

And  dream  of  angel  realms. 
And  from  the  earth,  and  from  the  eve. 

And  from  the  sunlight's  urn, 
My  soul  her  coloring  shall  receive; 

He  shall  not  here  return. 

I  must  not  think  of  him.     I'll  call 

Around  me  dance  and  song  ; 
Until  this  lone  dismantled  hall, 

Shakes  with  the  motley  throng: 
And  with  those  flashing  smiles  he  praised. 

I'll  move  amid  the  scene, 
Till  haughty  spirits  stand  amazed, 

And  own  me  for  their  queen. 


CATHARINE    ANNE    WARFIELD.  149 

I  dare  not  think  of  him  !   'tis  crime — 

Tis  infamy — 'tis  shame!  — 
I'll  turn  to  hopes  serene,  sublime, 

And  lands  where  dwells  not  blame. 
Here  prostrate  on  this  marble  floor, 

I  pray  with  outstretched  hands, 
That  Heaven  may  give  me  wings  to  soar, 

And  burst  these  tyrant  bands. 

Yet  even  here,  in  solemn  prayer, 

His  face,  his  presence  cling  ; 
A  deep  delight,  and  yet  despair — 

A  solace,  yet  a  sting. 
There  is  no  time,  there  is  no  spot, 

There  is  no  thought,  nor  dream, 
Wherein  that  aspect  cometh  not — 

I  cannot  oanish  Mm. 


ELEANOR    PERCY    LEE. 

Mrs.  Lee  was  the  younger  sister  of  Mrs.  Warfield,  and 
author,  jointly  with  her,  of  the  "  Wife  of  Leon,  and  Other 
Poems,"  as  well  as  the  collection  which  followed  it.  As  a 
child  she  composed  little  and  with  no  great  facility.  Her 
poetic  taste,  at  that  period,  seemed  rather  to  manifest  itself 
through  the  inspirations  of  others.  She  was  in  the  habit  of 
committing  to  memory  every  poem  that  struck  her  fancy ; 
and  this  was  done  with  a  facility  reminding  one  of  the 
chemical  operation  of  photography.  A  few  moments  of 
steady  gazing  and  murmured  repetition,  and  the  poem  was 
engraven  upon  her  retentive  brain,  ready  for  recitation. 

Her  talent  for  declamation  was  so  marked  as  to  have 
entitled  her  to  a  distinguished  place  in  histrionic  annals,  had 
inclination  or  necessity  led  her  to  adopt  this  line  of  art. 
Gifted  with  grace,  beauty,  marvellous  flexibility  of  feature 
and  attitude,  wonderful  nerve  and  self-command,  and  that  most 
"  excellent  thing  in  woman  " — a  richly  sympathetic  voice — 
nothing  was  wanted  to  insure  her  success,  either  as  reader  or 
actress.  Her  resemblance  to  the  antique  heads  of  Sappho  has 
been  more  than  once  remarked  by  artists  and  admirers  of  the 
Greek  lines  of  beauty. 

It  was  not  until  the  sorrows  of  life  began  to  overshadow 
her  joyous  spirit,  that  her  native  poetic  element  broke  forth 
in  strains  passionate  and  tender  as  her  own  depths. 

In  her  nineteenth  year  she  sustained  a  loss  from  which  she 
never  wholly  recovered,  and  for  which  she  found  her  greatest 

150 


ELEANOR    PERCY    LEE.  151 

consolation  in  poetry  and  religion.  She  became,  soon  after,  a 
member  of  the  Catholic  church,  to  the  doctrines  of  which  she 
had  early  inclined,  and  in  the  observance  of  which  she  lived 
and  died. 

She  had  passed  her  majority  when  she  gave  her  hand  to 
Henry  Lee,  a  native  of  Virginia,  although  a  resident  of  Mis- 
sissippi at  the  time  of  their  union.  They  resided  henceforth, 
first  on  Mrs.  Lee's  estate  in  Hinds  Comity,  Mississippi — where 
her  children  were  born — and  later  on  Deer  Creek — where  her 
husband  still  lives  with  his  sons.  She  left  one  daughter,  who 
passed  to  her  sister's  guardianship. 

Her  valuable  life  was  cut  short  in  its  bloom,  during  the 
fearful  epidemic  of  1849,  which  ravished  alike  North  and 
South.  She  had  merged  its  last  years  almost  wholly  in 
domestic  interests,  and  left  only  fragmentary  literary  remains, 
if  we  except  some  highly  finished  translations  of  the  choicest 
poems  of  Beranger  and  Lamartine,  which  it  is  hoped  her 
friends  will  soon  lay  before  the  public. 

THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

Round  that  house,  deserted  lying, 
Wearily  the  winds  are  sighing 
Evermore  with  sound  undying 

Through  the  shattered  window  pane  ; 
As  if  with  its  wails,  distressing, 
It  could  call  each  earthly  blessing 
From  the  sods,  above  them  pressing 

Back,  to  live  and  breathe  again. 

There  the  cuckoo  sits  complaining, 

All  night  long  her  voice  is  straining, 
And  the  empoisoned  oak-vine  training, 
Hangs  its  tendrils  mi  the  wall. 


152  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Once  within  those  chambers  dreaming, 
Gentle  looks  of  love  were  gleaming. 
Gentle  tones  with  deep  love  teeming, 
Did  unto  each  other  call. 

Far  above  the  roof-tree  failing, 
See  the  hoary  vulture  sailing, 
Marketh  she  the  serpent  trailing 

Underneath  the  threshold  stone. 
Heaven's  bright  messengers  resembling, 
Ringdoves,  here,  of  old,  were  trembling, 
As  round  some  fair  hand  assembling, 

They  were  fed  by  her  alone. 

Through  the  chamber  windows  prying. 
Softly  on  the  dark  floor  lying, 
See  the  ghostly  moonlight,  flying 

Through  the  untrodden  gloom. 
Seems  it  not  to  thee,  sweet  faces, 
Shadowy  forms  of  vanished  graces, 
Stealing,  flitting  to  their  places. 

In  that  long  forsaken  room? 

Where  the  darkened  stairway  windeth, 
There  her  brood  the  Eagle  mindeth. 
And  with  chains  Arachne  bindeth, 

Balustrade  to  balustrade. 
Once  so  lightly  upward  bounding. 
Fairy  steps  were  heard  resounding, 
While  sweet  laughter,  wild,  astounding. 

Echoes  through  the  mansion  made. 

Round  the  oaken  tables  spreading, 
Through  the  hall  the  guests  were  treading. 
Where  the  festal  lamps  were  shedding 
Light  upon  the  ruby  wine. 


ELEANOR    PERCY    LEE.  ];",:; 

Now  swift  through  the  doorway  shrunken, 
Creeping  o'er  the  threshold  sunken, 
With  the  dew  and  starlight  drunken, 
Reptile  insects  seem  to  twine. 

In  the  parlor,  long  forsaken, 
Once  the  lute  was  wont  to  waken ; 
And  with  locks  all  lightly  shaken, 

Maids  and  matrons  joined  in  mirth. 
Gentle  accents  here  were  swelling, 
Hallowed  voices  often  telling 
Heaven  alone  was  virtue's  dwelling  ; 

All  these  beings  rest  in  earth. 

'Mid  these  garden  flowerets  pining. 
'Neath  the  starlight  dimly  shining, 
Where  the  deadly  vine  is  twining, 

Once  were  glorious  bowers. 
Once  were  gladsome  children  playing, 
O'er  the  grass  plots  lightly  straying, 
With  their  golden  ringlets  swaying 

'Neath  their  crowns  of  flowers. 

By  yon  gnarled  oak's  curious  twisting, 
Here  was  once  a  lover's  trysting, 
Fondly  to  each  other  listing, 

While  they  told  their  plighted  vows. 
Often  when  the  lightning  streaketh, 
And  the  wind  its  branches  seeketh, 
Then  that  olden  oak-tree  speaketh, 

And  sweet  voices  fill  the  boughs. 

Could  we  bring  again  the  glory, 
To  this  mansion  grey  and  hoary, 
Flinging  light  on  every  story, 
Yet  it  would  be  desolate. 


154  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Yet  (they  say)  'tis  doomed  hereafter ; 
Forms  shall  gleam  from  wall  and  rafter, 
Full  of  silent  tears  and  laughter, 
Mingling  with  a  human  fate. 

Some  indeed  have  said,  that  creeping, 
Nightly  from  the  window  peeping, 
Lightly  from  the  casement  leaping, 

They  a  ghostly  maid  have  seen. 
On  the  broken  gate  she  swingeth, 
And  her  wan-like  hands  she  wringeth, 
And  with  garments  white  she  wingeth 

O'er  the  grassy  plain  so  green. 

To  the  dark  oak-tree  she  cometh, 
Round  its  trunk  she  wildly  roameth, 
Shuddering,  as  the  dark  stream  foameth, 

There  she  roves  till  break  of  day. 
Hers  they  say  was  love  elicit, 
Yet  from  out  her  murdered  spirit, 
This  sad  mansion  did  inherit 

A  curse  never  done  away. 

Therefore,  in  the  balance  weighing, 

Underneath  the  sods  decaying, 

With  their  white  hands  clasped  as  praying, 

Sleep  the  owners  of  the  spot. 
While  this  home  of  the  departed, 
Making  sad  the  lightest  hearted, 
Standeth  still,  a  house  deserted — 

By  the  world,  save  me,  forgot. 


ELEANOR    PERCY    LEE.  155 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  NILE. 

Oh  !  exquisite  thou  art — thy  stately  form 
Rears  well  its  head  of  antique  beauty,  high 
Above  earth's  more  degenerate  blossoms — for 
Thou  vert  when  Europe  was  a  wilderness, 
And  we  an  unknown  people. 

Thou  hast  seen 
The  gorgeous  triumphs  of  Egyptian  kings, 
And  made  thy  snowy  leaf  the  scroll,  whereon 
The  oracles  of  Isis  and  Osiris 
"Were  writ  in  ages  past.     Egyptian  girls 
Have  swept  their  long  robes  past  thee,  as  they  went 
Hearing  their  pitchers  to  the  ancient  Nile. 
And  thou  hast  seen  thine  image  in  its  waves, 
As  beautiful  as  theirs.     Oh,  mystic  flower! 
Thy  presence  fills  my  heart  with  inspiration, 
And  Pharaoh's  palaces  arise  again. 
Perchance  Cleopatra  bound  thee  on  her  brow, 
(Not  dark,  as  many  deem  it,  for  she  was 
Of  the  pure  old  Greek  race,)  and  in  such  crown 
Received  the  kingly  CfBsar  in  her  arms. 
Oh,  thou  art  beautiful  without  compeer, 
Thou  sculptured  urn— thou  handiwork  of  God! 

Once,  in  a  spell  of  sickness  I  lay  prone, 

With  weeping  friends  around  me.     All  things  were 

Tried  in  succession,  to  restore  my  smile. 

"  What  would'st  thou,  then?"  the  weary  watchers  cried; 

And  r  replied,  "A  Lily  of  the  Nile! 

Oli,  let  me  look  upon  its  stately  stem — 

Let  me  search  deep  within  its  scroll-like  leaf, 

Filled  to  the  brim  with  the  cool  midnight  dew, 

And  I  grow  well  again.     Friends,  friends,  I  die 

Because  my  heart  yearns  for  tiik  Beautiful, 

Shut  from  my  gaze  forever;   bring  me  that. 

And  I  grow  well  again!— And  that  fair  flower 


156  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Hath  in  itself  all  that  is  pure  and  rare — 
Bear  me  that  flower!"     But  thou  wert  far  away; 
Yes,  far  away — and  thus,  from  year  to  year, 
With  hurried  feet  I  trod  along  earth's  gardens, 
Searching  for  thee!  parting  the  overhanging  boughs 
Putting  aside  the  flowers,  and  searching  still. 
And  when  they  said,  "Are  these  not  beautiful?" 
My  heart  asked  for  the  old  Egyptian  flower, 
Until  I  found  thee ! 

Upon  all  earth's  blooms, 
Hath  my  heart  looked  with  love  almost  religious: 
But  chief  to  me  some  speak  as  if  with  tongues. 
For  me  the  lone,  blue  hyacinth,  hath  a  voice 
Redolent  of  sweet  music.     Angel  dreams 
Float  o'er  that  flower — angel  voices  breathe 
From  its  blue  petals,  with  a  sacred  song. 
For  me,  the  white  cape  jessamine's  perfume 
Bears  thought  of  love  upon  it,  human  love, 
But  purified,  exalted  as  the  skies. 
But  thou,  rare  Lily!  thou  art  more  to  me; 
Thou  stirrest  up  the  fountain  of  my  life. 
What  is  it  makes  thy  spell  ?     Say,  have  I  stood 
In  some  past  life  upon  thy  banks,  O  Nile ! 
Amid  thy  pyramids,  thy  priests,  thy  kings, 
So  strong  is  thy  spell  round  me? 

It  may  be, 
For  as  I  saw  thee,  flower  !  my  heart  leaped  forth 
As  if  to  welcome  thee,  and  life  itself 
Stayed  for  a  moment  all  its  rushing  tides, 
To  live  within  thy  breath,  and  my  soul  drank 
Thy  beauty,  like  an  old  familiar  thing. 
For  thou  hast  filled  some  vacant  measure  up, 
Of  my  deep  yearnings  for  the  immaculate ! 


ELEANOR    PERCY    LEE.  157 


THE  ANCESTRESS. 

She  is  wear}', 

She  is  dreary, 
In  the  earth  she  longs  to  rest — 

All  she  cherished, 

All  have  perished ; 
All  on  earth  she  loved  the  hest. 

All  who  loved  her, 

All  who  moved  her 
With  their  passionate  hopes  and  fears: 

All  around  her, 

All  that  bound  her 
To  the  home  of  earlier  years. 

Softly  walking, 

Gently  talking, 
Evermore  in  silence  sighing; 

Never  dreading, 

Never  shedding 
Tears,  to  know  that,  she  is  dying. 

She  is  aged, 

Grief  hath  waged 
War  with  all  her  beauty  bright ; 

And  she  weareth — 

Yet  she  beareth 
On  her  brow  a  seal  of  light. 

Oft  she  sitteth 
Ami  repeateth 
Many  a  broken  accent  there; 

God  she  praiseth, 

And  she  raiseth 
oft  her  withered  hands  in  prayer. 


158  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

She  is  mourning, 
Ever  turning 

Backward  still  her  longing  glance ; 
And  she  weepeth 
Ere  she  sleepeth, 

That  her  dream  is  hut  a  trance. 

For  the  cherished 

All  have  perished, 
All  on  earth  she  loved  the  best. 

She  is  dreary. 

She  is  weary — 
In  the  green  earth  let  her  rest. 


THE    CHILD    OF    MANY   TEARS. 

His  very  birth  with  grief  was  fraught, 

And  ominous  the  day  ; 
The  angel  who  the  infant  brought, 

The  mother  called  away  ; 
And  still  we  reared,  in  doubt  and  care, 

The  boy  through  rolling  years; 
And  called  him,  in  our  valley  fair, 

"The  child  of  many  tears." 

He  was  a  gentle,  loving  thing, 

Of  a  soft  heart  and  true  ; 
With  love  that  to  our  souls  did  cling, 

And  daily,  hourly  grew  ; 
And  his  were  dark  and  shaded  eyes  ; 

And  lashes  soft  and  fine  ; 
A  forehead  calm  as  summer  skies, 

A  childish  face  divine. 

But  his  was  an  imperfect  mold — 
Oh  !  sorrow  lone  and  dim — 

Those  limbs  so  free,  and  lithe,  and  bold, 
God  had  not  given  to  him. 


ELEANOR    PERCY    LEE.  159 

But  bent,  and  wry,  and  ill  at  ease 

In  his  dark,  mournful  lot, 
He  seemed  like  a  rich  master-piece 

Half  finished,  and — forgot. 

He  grew  up  in  our  native  vale, 

Ev'n  with  the  bending  flowers; 
His  boyish  cheek  was  very  pale, 

As  jas'mine  of  the  bowers. 
And  most  he  loved  to  lie  at  length 

Upon  the  long  soft  grass, 
While  visions  of  a  sweeping  strength 

O'er  his  deep  heart  would  pass. 

His  was  a  keen  and  subtile  soul — 

And  words  of  power  and  might, 
And  visions  he  could  not  control, 

Burst  evermore  to  light. 
The  hidden  treasures  of  his  thought 

First  calmly  flowed  along, 
Until  they  swelled,  with  beauty  fraught, 

A  river  broad  and  strong. 

He  left  us — left  that  lowly  home, 

That  porch  he  loved  so  well : 
We  listed  his  slow  step  to  come, 

Vainly,  when  evening  fell. 
We  often  to  each  other  spake 

Of  him  with  earnest  fears; 
We  loved  him  for  his  parent's  sake, 

That  "  child  of  many  tears." 

And  many  a  year  rolled  slowly  on, 

Witli  changes  crowded  fast; 
We  had  not  heard  of  him  since  on 

Our  step  he  pondered  last. 


160  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

One  eve,  a  stranger  to  our  door 
Came  covered  with  the  snow, 

And  from  his  lips  we  heard  once  more 
Of  him — lov'd  long  ago. 

The  highest  in  the  council-room, 

The  wittiest  in  the  hall ; 
The  lord  of  a  far  distant  home, 

Adored,  revered  of  all ; 
"Wearing  upon  a  youthful  brow, 

The  power  and  pride  of  years. 
With  yearnings  strange,  we  name  him  now 

The  "child  of  many  tears." 


THE    SUN-STRUCK   EAGLE. 

I  saw  an  eagle  sweep  to  the  sky — 

The  God-like  !— seeking  his  place  on  high, 

With  a  strong,  and  wild,  and  rapid  wing — 

A  dark  and  yet  a  dazzling  thing; 

And  his  arching  neck,  his  bristling  crest, 

And  the  dark  plumes  quivering  upon  his  breast ; 

And  his  eye,  bent  up  to  each  beam  of  light, 

Like  a  bright  sword  flash'd  with  a  sword  in  fight. 

I  saw  him  rise  o'er  the  forest  trees; 
I  saw  his  pinion  ride  the  breeze; 
Beyond  the  clouds  I  watched  him  tower 
On  his  path  of  pride— his  flight  of  power. 
I  watched  him  wheeling,  stern  and  lone, 
Where  the  keenest  ray  of  the  sun  was  thrown; 
Soaring,  circling,  bathed  in  light  : 
Such  was  that  desert  eagle's  flight. 

Suddenly,  then,  to  my  straining  eye, 
I  saw  the  strong  wing  slack  on  high; 


ELEANOR    PERCY    LEE.  161 

Failing,  falling  to  earth  once  more ; 

The  dark  breast  covered  with  foam  and  gore ; 

The  dark  eves'  glory  dim  with  pain; 

Sick  tn  death  with  a  sun-struck  brain! 

Reeling  down  from  that  height  divine, 

Eagle  of  heaven!  such  fall  was  thine! 

Even  so  we  see  the  sons  of  light, 

Up  to  the  day-beam  steer  their  flight; 

And  the  wing  of  genius  cleaves  the  sky, 

As  the  clouds  rush  on  when  the  winds  are  high ; 

Then  comes  the  hour  of  sudden  dread — 

Then  is  the  blasting  sun-light  shed ; 

And  the  gifted  fall  in  their  agony, 

Sun-struck  eagle !  to  die  like  thee ! 


BURY  HER  WITH  HER  SHINING  HAIR. 

Bury  her  with  her  shining  hair 

Around  her  streaming  bright ; 
Bury  her  with  those  locks  so  rare 

Enrobing  her  in  light. 
As  saints  who  in  their  native  sky 

Their  golden  haloes  wear, 
Around  her  forehead,  pure  and  high, 

Enwreathe  the  shining  hair. 

She  was  too  frail  on  earth  to  staj  ; 

I  never  saw  a  face, 
On  which,  of  premature  decay 

Was  set  so  plain  a  trace. 
She  was  too  pure  to  linger  here, 

Amid  the  homes  'it'  earth  ; 
Her  spirit  in  another  sphere 

nad  its  immortal  birth. 
II 


162  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

She  was  not  one  to  live  and  love, 

Amid  earth's  fading  things  ; 
Her  being  had  its  home  above, 

And  spread  immortal  wings. 
And  round  her  now,  as  still  she  sleeps 

Encoffined  in  her  prime, 
No  eye  in  anguished  sorrow  weeps, 

For  grief  is  here  sublime. 

Even  while  she  lived,  an  awe  was  cast 

Around  her  loveliness ; 
It  seemed  as  if,  whene'er  she  passed, 

A  spirit  came  to  bless. 
A  child  upraised  its  tiny  hands, 

And  cried — "  Oh,  weep  no  more, 
Mother  !  behold  an  angel  stands 

Before  our  cottage  door." 


We  would  not  bring  her  back  to  life, 

With  word,  or  charm,  or  sign — 
Nor  yet  recall  to  scenes  of  strife 

A  creature  all  divine. 
We  would  not  even  ask  to  shred 

One  tress  of  golden  gleam, 
That  o'er  that  fair  and  perfect  head 

Sheds  a  refulgent  beam. 

No! — lay  her  with  her  shining  hair 

Around  her  flowing  bright ; 
We  would  not  keep,  of  one  so  rare, 

Memorials  in  our  sight. 
Too  harsh  a  shade  would  seem  to  lie 

On  all  things  here  beneath. 
If  we  beheld  one  token  by, 

Of  her  who  sleeps  in  death. 


■^"^J&^ecjeZ,, 


MARIA    J.   MdNTOSH. 

It  is  now  nineteen  years  since  Miss  Mcintosh,  suddenly 
deprived  of  an  ample  fortune,  sent  out  her  first  little  volume  to 
feel  the  pulse  of  the  public,  and  decide  the  question,  "  to  be,  or 
not  to  be,"  in  the  sense  of  authorship.  It  was  a  child's  book, 
of  religious  tone  and  pleasantly  familiar  style,  its  very  name 
("  Blind  Alice  ")  suggestive  of  its  doubtful  mission.  But  the 
"  cry  of  the  children,"  and  the  verdict  of  the  people,  were  a 
unanimous  "  to  be ;"  and  in  all  these  after  years,  she  has  not 
only  held  her  position,  but,  without  adventitious  aids,  eccentri- 
cities of  style,  or  any  species  of  chicanery,  steadily  advanced. 
Her  name  is  familiar  now  in  every  household,  and  her  books 
have  become  a  feature  of  American  literature. 

Twenty-five  years  have  made  Miss  Mcintosh  a  citizen  of  the 
North,  and  gladly  would  we  claim  her  by  birth  as  by  adoption; 
but  "honor  to  whom  honor  is  due."  It  cannot  be  denied,  that 
though  of  Scottish  descent,  tracing  back  to  the  clan  Mcintosh, 
famous  in  history  as  loyal  adherents  of  the  House  of  Stuart,  she 
was  born  in  Georgia,  in  the  village  of  Sunbury,  not  far  from 
Savannah,  and  there  received  her  primal  stamp  and  stamina. 

Driven  from  his  native  land  by  the  fall  of  the  Stuarts, 
( Japtain  John  More  Mcintosh,  the  great-grandfather  of  the 
author,  set  sail,  in  1735,  with  one  hundred  retainers,  for  the 
colony  of  Georgia.  They  landed  on  the  banks  of  the  Altaniaha, 
and  called  their  settlement  (now  known  as  Darien)  New  Inver- 
ness,  in   memory  of  Fatherland.     The  county   still   bears  the 


164  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

original  name  of  Mcintosh.  Among  the  sons  and  grandsons  of 
this  brave  pioneer,  were  Colonel  William  and  Major  Lachlan 
Mcintosh,  the  grandfather  and  father  of  our  author ;  both 
officers  in  the  American  army  of  the  Revolution,  the  latter  a 
lawyer  as  well,  and  proving  himself  large  enough  to  combine, 
and  adorn  equally,  the  two  arduous  and  honorable  professions. 

Soon  after  the  Revolution,  Major  Mcintosh,  who  seems  to 
have  been  a  man  of  heart  and  great  social  attractions,  married 
a  lady  every  way  worthy  of  him,  and  removed  to  the  village  of 
Sunbury,  where,  in  a  fine  old  mansion  looking  out  upon  the  sea, 
was  born  and  reared  the  subject  of  our  sketch.  Very  vivid  and 
tender  are  her  recollections  of  this  old  home,  amid  whose  natural 
loveliness,  and  social  and  fireside  genialities,  passed  the  spring- 
time of  her  life ;  warm,  golden,  native  memories,  which  are 
woven  with  the  very  fibres  of  her  being,  and  stamp  her,  every- 
where, a  southron  born. 

Even  the  little  village  of  Sunbury  boasted  of  an  Academy, 
with  an  "  Irish  gentleman,1'  a  graduate  of  the  University  of 
Antrim,  at  its  head ;  and  under  these  auspices  the  "  young  idea" 
of  our  author  commenced,  happily,  its  development.  To  the 
discipline  of  this  school,  in  a  good  degree,  she  gratefully  ascribes 
the  habit  of  self-reliance,  which  was  afterward  her  invaluable 
and  distinguishing  characteristic.  It  was  very  early  called  in 
recpiisition ;  for  her  mother,  rendered  helpless  for  years  before 
her  death  by  a  prostrating  illness,  was  obliged  to  throw  upon 
the  young  school-girl  not  only  the  mantle  of  her  own  responsi- 
bilities, but  the  flesh-and-spirit-trying  office  of  a  devoted  nurse. 
Years  of  cheerful,  self-denying  ministration  by  the  bedside  of 
this  dear  invalid,  prepared  our  author,  perhaps  more  effectively 
than  any  other  experience,  for  her  part  in  the  stirring  drama  of 
life. 

In  1835,  after  the  death  of  both  father  and  mother,  Miss 
Mcintosh  came  to  reside  in  New  York  with  her  brother,  Captain 


MARIA    J.   McINTOSH.  165 

James  M.  Mcintosh,  U.  S.  Navy.  Disposing  of  her  property 
in  Georgia,  she  then  vested  the  proceeds  in  New  York  securi- 
ties, and  entered,  with  the  full  glow  of  her  exuberant  nature, 
upon  the  electrical  currents  of  her  new  sphere. 

But  not  thus  was  she  to  awake  to  a  true  self-knowledge.  In 
the  crisis  of  1S37,  every  vestige  of  her  patrimony  was  swallowed 
up,  and  out  of  the  vortex  rose  a  new  creation.  Thrown  upon 
her  own  powers,  they  met  her,  for  the  first  time,  face  to  face, 
strong  and  vigorous.  Cast  upon  the  beautiful  faith  of  her 
childhood,  she  found  herself  serenely  upheld,  and  with  a  hopeful 
prayer  she  began  her  work. 

It  had  been  suggested  by  a  friend,  that  she  should  test  her 
powers  in  a  series  of  juvenile  tales,  and  establish  a  relation  with 
the  public  under  the  name  of  "  Aunt  Kitty."  In  two  years 
"  Blind  Alice  "  was  completed,  and  then  ensued  the.  delays 
usually  attendant  upon  the  publication  of  an  unaccredited  work. 
Not  until  January,  1841,  was  it  brought  out  by  Mr.  Newman, 
and  then  with  marked  success. 

Thus  stimulated,  our  author  went  rapidly  through  the 
proposed  series,  and,  in  1843,  had  given  to  the  world  succes- 
sively, "Jessie  Grahame,"  "Florence  Arnott,"  "Grace  and 
Clara,"  and  "  Ellen  Leslie,"  each  one  a  simply  tissued  casket, 
in  which,  pure  as  a  dew-drop,  sparkled  its  own  jewel  of  moral 
truth.  "  Aunt  Kitty  "  grew  famous.  Countless  were  the  curly- 
headed  darlings  who  blessed  her  in  their  nightly  prayers,  and 
carried  her,  a  last,  sweet  thought,  into  dream-land.  Nor  can 
we  doubt  that  from  these  little  books  has  dropped  into  many 
a  tender  heart  such  seed  as  afterward  sprang  up  and  ripened 
into  golden  limit.  About  this  fair,  fine  basis  of  her  fame,  Miss 
Mcintosh  loves  to  wreathe  the  choicest  of  her  laurels. 

In  1*44,  "Conquest  and  Self-Conquest,"  and  "Woman  an 
Enigma."  were  published  by  the  Messrs.  Harper,  and.  in  1*45. 
the  same  house  produced   "  Praise  and  Principle,"  and  "  The 


166  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH 

Cousins,"  a  little  volume  intended,  originally,  to  complete  the 
series  called  "  Aunt  Kitty's  Tales."  She  then  wrote  "  Two 
Lives,  or  To  Seem  and  to  Be,"  which  was  published  by  the 
Messrs.  Appleton  in  1846,  with  the  name,  until  then  withheld,  of 
the  author.  In  1847,  the  same  house  republished  "  Aunt  Kitty's 
Tales,"  corrected  and  collected  in  one  volume ;  and,  in  1S48, 
brought  out  '-  Charms  and  Counter-Charms,"  a  work  in  which 
the  author  seems  to  have  concentrated  the  strength  ot  her  artistic 
and  womanly  nature.  It  is  threaded  with  veins  and  nerves,  as 
if  she  had  dipped  her  pen  in  living  hearts,  and  written  on,  and 
on,  because  the  electric  tide  would  flow.  It  impresses  one  with 
a  painful  sense  of  reality,  and,  at  the  same  time,  with  a  conflict- 
ing sense  of  unnaturalness — the  unnaturalness,  not  of  highly- 
wrought  fiction,  but  of  intense  truth.  The  plot  is  complicate, 
but  well  defined  and  sustained.  Questions  of  vital  import  are 
involved,  and  worked  out  with  a  will  and  fervor  which  leave 
their  indelible  record  upon  the  memory  of  the  reader. 

Easton  Hastings,  the  hero,  belongs,  we  should  say,  to  the 
German  type  of  organism  and  temperament.  A  "  dark  man  " — 
the  philosopher  Alcott  would  call  him — with  luminous  phases. 
A  man  of  strong  will  and  rare  physical  and  spiritual  magnetism  ; 
skilled  in  metaphysical  disquisition,  worldly-wise,  skeptical,  and 
sufficient ;  lofty  and  cold  as  a  mountain  peak  to  the  many,  but 
to  those  who  interest  him,  or  whom  for  any  reason  he  would 
interest,  warm,  winsome,  and  low-voiced  as  the  sigh  of  a  sum- 
mer twilight ;  a  man  of  whom  we  can,  most  of  us,  say,  we  have 
known  one  such  in  a  lifetime  ;  one  whom  we  admired  and 
deprecated  ;  a  sphere  that  was  not  loud  nor  discordant,  but  deep 
and  unserene  ;  a  spirit  that  knew  its  power  and  loved  to  test  it, 
though  in  the  process  it  stirred  and  troubled  many  waters. 

Evelyn  Beresford,  a  young  girl  of  warm  heart  and  generous 
impulses,  the  pet  and  sunbeam  of  her  father's  house,  marries 
Easton  Hastings,  and  is  borne  along  his  fiery  orbit,  ignoring,  to 


MARIA    J.    McINTOSH.  167 

meet  his  exactions,  one  after  another,  the  finer  and  holier 
instincts  of  her  nature,  till  at  last  she  reaches  a  point  from 
whence  she  must  retrace  her  steps  or  lose  all.  Stifling  the  cry 
of  her  agonized  heart,  she  goes  forth  from  his  home,  with  her 
frail  life  in  her  hand,  and  Easton  Hastings,  left  alone  with  the 
memory  of  her  love  and  prayerful  vigils,  for  the  first  time 
awakes  to  a  sense  of  "  heart  within  and  God  o'erhead."  Peni- 
tent and  subdued,  he  seeks  out  the  fugitive,  and  a  new  union, 
based  upon  the  sympathy  and  fitness  of  divine  appointment, 
secures  to  both  the  happiness  which  had  well-nigh  been  wrecked 
forever. 

There  is  no  work  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Mcintosh  which  con- 
veys to  the  world  a  more  important  and  salutary  lesson  than 
this.  Written  with  a  fervidness  and  abandon  which  belong  to 
no  other  production  of  the  gifted  writer,  it  sends  its  moral  home 
witli  greater  certainty,  and  affords  the  fairest  criterion  of  her 
powers. 

In  1849,  "  Evenings  at  Donaldson  Manor,"  a  collection  of 
stories,  written  at  different  times  for  magazines,  was  published 
by  the  Appletons,  and,  in  1850,  they  also  issued  "  Woman  in 
America,  her  Work  and  her  Reward." 

In  this  book  the  writer  appears  in  a  new  aspect.  Leaving 
the  rich  fields  of  imagination,  she  comes  before  her  readers  with 
an  ethical  treatise,  in  which  she  most  skillfully  dissects  the  ai"ti- 
ficial  system  of  social  life  in  America,  and  shows  herself  capable 
of  a  wide  and  well-linked  range  of  logical  thought.  We  find  in 
this  work  strong  proofs  of  the  writer's  self-assertion  and  equi- 
poise.    She  has  evidently  lost  much  of  her  respect  for 

"  The  pleasant  old  conventions  of  our  false  humanity." 

and  looks  at  life's  shams  and  servilities  through  her  own  proper 
eye-glass.  She  even  ventures  to  define  clearly  her  conception 
of  that  hackneyed,   evasive,    nondescript    thing,    "  a    woman's 


168  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

sphere  ;"  and  her  ideas  upon  the  subject  are  in  strict  accordance 
with  her  life. 

Her  next  book,  "  The  Lofty  and  the  Lowly,"  appeared  in 
1S53.  It  is  a  tale  descriptive  of  Southern  life,  and  has  sold 
largely  at  home  and  abroad. 

In  1857,  "  Violet,  or  the  Cross  and  the  Crown,"  was  brought 
out  by  Jewett  &  Co.,  of  Boston.  This  work  is  marked  by  fine 
delineations  and  dramatic  power,  no  less  than  by  simplicity  and 
pathos. 

The  story  unfolds  with  a  wild  shipwreck  scene  on  the  coast 
of  New  Jersey.  A  sweet  babe,  the  only  living  tiling  upon  the 
stranded  vessel,  is  found  lashed  to  an  upper  berth,  while  its 
dead  mother  lies,  white  and  cold,  beneath  the  water  upon  the 
cabin  floor.  The  burial  scene  upon  that  desolate  shore — the 
group  of  rude  wreckers,  and  the  lonely  waif-child — the  still 
sleeper  in  the  rough  deal-box— the  "  dust  to  dust  "  of  the  sublime 
service,  mingling  with  the  hoarse  roar  of  the  ocean — is  singu- 
larly impressive.     The  book  is  full  of  such  pictures. 

The  foundling  is  claimed  by  one  of  the  wreckers,  and  taught 
to  look  iipon  him  and  his  coarse  companions  as  her  natural  pro- 
tectors. While  yet  very  young,  by  one  of  the  coincidences 
occasional  to  real  life,  inevitable  to  romance,  she  is  thrown  into 
the  presence  of  her  true  father,  who,  unconscious  of  their  tender 
relation,  yet  impelled  by  an  undefinable  instinct,  adopts  his 
unknown  child.  She  is  baptized  Violet  Eoss,  in  memory  of  his 
angel  wife — her  mother — and  removed  from  the  lawless  wreck- 
ers to  a  refined  and  luxurious  home.  But,  amid  the  amenities 
of  her  new  position,  one  thought  haunts  and  distresses  her  ;  she 
is  not  Violet  Boss,  the  daughter  of  her  noble  foster-father,  but 
Mary  Van  Dyke,  and  must  still  say  "  father  "  to  the  repulsive 
wrecker,  and  "  mother  "  to  the  wrecker's  wife ;  they  have  a  first 
claim,  and  may,  at  any  time,  recall  her.  The  good  pastor  tells 
her  that  every  human  creature  must  bear  a  cross  on  earth,  who 


MARIA    J.    McINTOSH.  169 

would  wear  a  crown  in  heaven,  and  that  this  is  her  cross.  That 
night  the  angels  record  the  vow  of  the  beautiful  girl,  to  bear 
cheerfully  and  unfalteringly  the  burden  imposed  upon  her;  and 
then  commence  a  life  of  sacrifice  and  a  series  of  events  which 
give  to  the  book  a  peculiar  and  deep  interest.  Many  a  bruised 
heart  has  lifted  itself  hopefully  in  the  light  of  little  Violet's 
smile  and  the  strength  of  the  promise,  thus  happily  presented, 
"  Bear  the  cross,  and  ye  shall  wear  the  crown." 

In  1858,  "  Meta  Gray,"  a  juvenile  tale,  which  has  been  read 
through  springing  tears  by  more  than  one  with  small  claims  to 
juvenility,  was  published  by  the  Appletons. 

In  January,  1859,  Miss  Mcintosh,  in  company  with  her 
nephew  (the  Hon.  John  Ward,  American  minister  to  China) 
and  his  family,  sailed  for  Liverpool.  After  spending  some 
months  in  pleasant  wanderings  about  England  and  France,  Mr. 
Ward  proceeded  upon  his  mission,  and  Miss  Mcintosh,  in  com- 
pany with  Mrs.  Ward  and  her  children,  settled  quietly  down  in 
one  of  the  picturesque  valleys  of  Geneva,  Switzerland  ;  just  such 
a  nestling-place  as  Ossian  would  have  painted  with  one  dash 
of  his  magical  pencil :  "  a  green  field  in  the  bosom  of  hills  winds 
silent  with  its  own  blue  stream."  Their  little  cottage,  shut  in 
by  Alpine  heights,  looking  out  only  upon  its  own  vale  and 
stream,  the  bright  flowers  in  the  clefts  of  the  mountain,  and  the 
deepening  depths  of  ever-changing  cloud-land,  was  the  very 
haven  of  rest  which  the  over-wrought  brain  of  our  author 
required.  Here,  in  the  society  of  a  few  genial  friends,  and  in 
tender  and  worshipful  communion  with  the  great  heart  of 
Nature,  she  not  only  gathered  strength  and  inspiration,  but 
memorized  much  valuable  material  tor  future  labors. 

At  the  close  of  the  year,  unwilling  to  remain  longer  from 
duties  and  responsibilities  at  home,  she  returned  to  America, 
and  is  now  preparing  for  publication  a  work  commenced  before 
her   departure    for    Europe :    writing    in    intervals   of    leisure, 


170  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

snatched  from  social,  tutorial  and  fireside  claims,  which  would 
fill  xip,  and  overrun,  a  life  less  determined  and  systematic 
Two  or  three  hours  of  each  day  are  devoted  to  the  young  ladies 
of  Miss  Haines'  well-ordered  school :  and  occasionally,  as  if  to 
show  the  utmost  tension  of  which  twelve  mortal  hours  are 
capable,  she  stirs  up  an  appreciative  class  at  her  own  house, 
with  readings  from  the  Greek  tragedies. 

Miss  Mcintosh  is  known  to  the  world  chiefly  as  a  prose 
writer ;  yet  among  her  unpublished  papers  are  to  be  found 
metrical  gems  such  as  only  a  poet  could  have  conceived  and 
crystallized  ;  fragments  of  songs,  too,  are  there  :  a  sigh  of  "  A 
Lament,"  a  swell  of  "  A  Pean,"  a  pinion  of  "  A  Prayer,"  some 
of  which  thrill  on  the  ear  like  the  impinging  strains  of  the  old 
harpers.  These  specimens  are  simple  in  their  construction  ; 
there  is  no  straining  for  metaphorical  effect,  and  no  sublime 
ambiguity ;  but  they  come,  as  true  poems  should,  from  the 
heart,  mellow  and  rhythmical  with  the  heart's  emotions. 

Miss  Mcintosh's  books  have  all  been  translated  into  French, 
and  have  sold  largely,  both  in  England  and  France.  She  has 
achieved  for  herself  independence  and  distinction,  and  now,  in 
a  pleasant  home,  dispenses  those  refined  courtesies  which  are 
ever  a  distinguishing  mark  of  the  high-bred  Southerner. 

But  we  must  not  forget  that  we  are  presenting  Miss  Mcin- 
tosh to  the  world  only  as  the  loriter  ;  the  mimosan  modesty  of 
the  woman  will  ever  limit  to  her  immediate  circle  the  truest 
knowledge  of  her  native  nobleness  and  Christian  worth. 


WOMAN— HER  OFFICES  AND  HER  POWERS. 

How  many  eloquent  theses  have  been  written,  and  how  much  logic 
wasted,  to  prove  the  equality  of  the  sexes !  It  seems  to  us,  that  the  writers 
and  speakers  on  this  subject  would  have  done  well  to  commence  by  defin- 


MARIA    J.   McINTOSH.  171 

ing  their  terms.  What  is  meant  hy  equality  as  here  used?  It  is  intended 
to  convey  the  idea  that  the  soul  of  woman  is  as  precious  to  the  Father 
of  spirits  as  that  of  man  ?  that  woman  has  an  equal  interest  with  man  in 
all  those  great  events  which  have  marked  the  dealings  of  God  with  His 
intelligent  creation  on  our  earth,  from  the  hour  in  which  Adam,  awaking 
from  a  deep  sleep,  found  beside  him  the  companion  of  his  sinless  and 
happy  life,  to  the  present  moment,  when  the  sin-stricken  and  sorrowing 
soul  of  man,  echoing  the  divine  conviction  that  it  is  not  good  for  him  to 
be  alone,  still  seeks  in  woman  his  "help-meet"  in  the  labors,  the  trials, 
and  sufferings  of  mortality  ?  Are  we  to  understand  from  it  that  woman, 
equally  with  man,  lias  a  trust  committed  to  her  by  the  Judge  of  all,  for  the 
fulfillment  of  which  she  will  be  held  responsible  ?  Can  these  things  be 
matter  of  doubt ?  Were  not  Mary  and  Martha  loved  as  well  as  Lazarus? 
Did  not  the  soul  of  Anna  kindle  with  as  divine  an  inspiration  as  that  of 
Simeon,  when  she  held  in  her  arms  the  infant  Saviour  ? 

Or  is  the  question,  whether  woman  exerts  an  equally  important  influence 
over  the  character  and  destinies  of  our  race  ?  This  can  scarcely  be  a  ques- 
tion to  one  familiar  with  the  records  of  Paradise  and  Bethlehem. 

And  yet  the  unqualified  assertion  of  equality  between  the  sexes,  would 
be  contradicted  alike  by  sacred  and  profane  history. 

Different  offices  and  different  powers— .-this  is  what  we  would  assert  of 
them,  leaving  to  others  the  vain  question  of  equality  or  inequality.  Each 
seems  to  us  equally  important  to  the  fulfillment  of  God's  designs  in  the  for- 
mation, the  preservation  and  the  perfection  of  human  society. 

The  stout  heart  and  strong  hand  of  man  are  obviously  needed  in  every 
successive  stage  of  social  organization,  from  its  earliest  attempts  to  the 
highest  development  it  has  yet  attained.  There  has  been  a  time  predicted, 
indeed,  and  we  humbly  hope  there  are  already  tokens  that  this  good  time  is 
coming,  when  "the  wolf  shall  dwell  with  the  lamb,  and  the  leopard  shall  lie 
down  with  the  kid,  and  the  young  lion  and  the  fatling  together,  and  a  little 
chilil  shall  lead  them  ;"  that  is,  when  the  passions  which  have  made  mankind 
like  ferocious  animals  shall  be  subdued,  and  a  little  child,  the  type  of  love, 
shall  lead  those  for  whom  bolts  and  Lars  had  been  needed.  But  till  that 
period  arrive,  would  notour  earth  be  as  one  wide  Bedlam,  were  it  not  that 
the  strong  arm  of  government  supplies  outward  restraints  for  those  who 
have  no  restraining  principle  within?  And  this  government — is  it  not 
clearly  man's  province?  Has  it  not  been  committed  to  him  by  heaven,  and 
is  not  the  nature  with  which  he  is  gifted  the  seal  of  that  commission?     Law 


172  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

is  an  uncompromising,  inexorable  power ;  can  it  be  the  product  of  a  gentle 
woman's  mind?  It  must  be  upheld  by  a  force  which  will  prove  opposition 
bootless ;  does  that  belong  to  woman  ? 

But  while  all  the  outward  machinery  of  government,  the  body,  the  thews 
and  sinews  of  society,  are  man's,  woman,  if  true  to  her  own  not  less  impor- 
tant or  less  sacred  mission,  controls  the  vital  principle.  Unseen  herself, 
working  like  nature,  in  secret,  she  regulates  its  pulsations,  and  sends  forth 
from  its  heart,  in  pure,  temperate  flow,  the  life-giving  current.  It  is  hers  to 
warm  into  life  the  earliest  germs  of  thought  and  feeling  in  the  infant  mind, 
to  watch  the  first  dawning  of  light  upon  the  awakening  soul,  to  aid  the  first 
faint  struggles  of  the  clay-encumbered  spirit,  to  clasp  the  beautiful  realities 
which  here  and  there  present  themselves  amid  the  glittering  falsities  of 
earth,  and  to  guide  its  first  tottering  steps  into  the  paths  of  peace.  And 
who  does  not  feel  how  her  warm  affections  and  quick  irrepressible  sympa- 
thies fit  her  for  these  labors  of  love  ?  As  the  young  immortal  advances  in 
his  career,  he  comes  to  need  a  severer  discipline,  and  man,  with  his  uncon- 
ceding  reason  and  stern  resolve,  becomes  his  teacher.  Yet  think  not  that 
woman's  work  is  done  when  the  child  has  passed  into  the  youth,  or  the 
youth  into  the  man.  Still,  as  disease  lays  its  hand  heavily  upon  the  strong 
frame,  and  sorrow  wrings  the  proud  heart  of  man,  she,  the  "help-meet,"  if 
faithful  to  her  allotted  work,  is  at  his  side,  teaching  him  to  bend  to  the 
storms  of  life,  that  he  may  not  be  broken  by  them  ;  humbly  stooping  herself, 
that  she  may  remove  from  his  path  every  "  stone  of  stumbling,"  and  gently 
leading  him  onward  and  upward  to  a  Divine  consoler,  with  whose  blessed 
ministerings  the  necessities  of  a  more  timid  spirit  and  a  feebler  physical 
organization  have  made  her  familiar. 


"OUT    OF   THE   MOUTHS    OF   BABES."* 

The  little  Eva,  for  so  Easton  Hastings  called  his  first-born,  was  a  fair 
child,  with  the  soft  eyes  and  dimpled  cheeks  of  her  mother,  and  with  all  her 
mother's  loving  heart.  The  affection  of  this  child  for  her  grave,  quiet  father, 
had  been  the  subject  of  wondering  observation  to  nurses  and  nursery-maids, 
and  of  silent  delight  to  Evelyn,  almost  from  her  birth.  She  was  a  gentle 
child,  and  few  things  moved  her  to  any  vivacious  demonstration  of  feeling, 
but  his  entrance  was  early  welcomed  by  a  soft,  dove-like  note,  and  an  eager, 

*  •'  Charms  and  Counter  Charms." 


MARIA    J.   McINTOSH.  173 

dancing  movement  of  her  hands  and  feet.  She  would  lie  quietly  for  hours 
with  her  head  pillowed  on  his  bosom,  and  when  he  was  compelled  to  resign 
her,  though  she  seldom  cried  aloud,  the  quivering  of  the  little  lip,  and  the 
tenacious  grasp  of  the  bahy-hand,  made  a  more  touching  appeal  to  his  feel- 
ings. That  clinging  baby-touch,  that  soft  baby-voice,  had  exercised  a  magic 
power  over  the  heart  of  Easton  Hastings,  awakening  the  first  pure,  unselfish 
love  he  had  ever  known.  To  this  love,  and  to  the  home  it  brightened,  he 
turned  with  new  power  of  enjoyment,  after  the  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Mabury's 
death  had  set  him  free  from  the  torture  caused  by  the  thought  of  her  living 
agonies.  It  was  but  a  few  short  weeks  after  this,  that  he  sat  reading  one 
day  in  the  room  which  Mary  had  formerly  occupied  at  Beresford  Hall,  but 
which  had  long  been  designated  in  the  family  as  Mr.  Hastings'  study,  from 
the  fact  of  his  having  removed  his  books  and  papers  there,  and  spending 
many  of  his  hours  among  them.  He  had  not  read  long,  ere  he  heard  those 
little  feet,  "  whose  very  step  had  music  in't  "  for  his  ear,  come  pattering 
along  the  floor  of  the  wide  hall,  and  then,  as  they  paused,  a  little  hand 
tapped  at  the  door,  and  a  soft  voice  cried,  "  'Tis  Eve,  papa." 

He  delayed  for  awhile  to  open  the  door,  that  he  might  hear  the  sweet 
summons  again.  When  admitted,  the  child  amused  herself  for  some  time 
with  a  book  of  colored  engravings,  but  at  length  climbed  upon  the  sofa,  on 
which  he  sat,  and  saying,  in  a  languid  voice,  "  Eve  tired,  papa,"  stretched 
herself  out  with  her  head  on  his  knee,  and  soon  fell  asleep  with  his  hand 
stroking  her  ringlets.  She  had  looked  a  little  pale  in  the  morning,  but  as 
she  slept  her  color  deepened  till  her  cheeks  and  lips  were  of  a  carnation  tint. 
Her  breath  came  quick,  and  while  he  was  admiring  her  beauty,  and  rejoicing 
in  what  he  thought  the  glow  of  health,  fever  was  rioting  in  her  veins — the 
canker-worm  was  eating  into  the  heart  of  his  flower.  We  pass  over  the 
thrill  of  agony  when  he  first  discovered  the  truth — the  days  and  nights  of 
fearful  watching  beside  the  couch  of  that  beloved  sufferer,  during  which 
Evelyn — the  fond  Evelyn,  to  whom  her  children  were  as  the  dearer  parts  of 
her  own  being — had  to  become  his  comforter,  and  come  at  once  to  those  last 
hours,  every  moment  of  which  impressed  itself  indelibly  on  his  being. 

The  child's  disease  was  scarlet  fever ;  and  as  it  was  before  the  German 
Hippocrates  had  revealed  to  the  world  the  great  antidote  against,  that  poison 
witli  which  ( rod  has  furnished  it,  or,  at  least,  before  that  revelation  had  been 
widely  received  in  America,  her  case  admitted  little  hope  from  the  first. 
Ten  days  and  nights  of  ever-deepening  gloom  had  passed,  and  in  the  silent 
night,  having  insisted  that  Evelyn,  who  had  herself  shown  symptoms  of  ill- 


174  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

ness  through  the  day,  should  retire  to  bed,  Easton  Hastings  sat  alone  watch- 
ing with  a  tightening  heart  the  disturbed  sleep  of  little  Eva.  It  was  near 
midnight  when  that  troubled  sleep  was  broken.  The  child  turned  from  side 
to  side  uneasily,  and  looked  somewhat  wildly  around  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  my  darling?"  asked  Easton  Hastings,  in  tones 
of  melting  tenderness. 

"  Where's  mamma?     Eve  want  mamma  to  say  '  Our  Father."  " 

Easton  Hastings  had  often  contemplated  the  beautiful  picture  of  his  child 
kneeling,  with  clasped  hands,  beside  her  mother,  to  lisp  her  evening  prayer, 
or  since  her  illness  forbade  her  rising  from  her  bed,  of  Evelyn  kneeling 
beside  it,  taking  those  clasped  hands  in  hers,  and  listening  to  Eva's  softly- 
murmured  words.  Well  he  knew,  therefore,  what  was  meant  by  Eva's 
simple  phrase,  "To  say  our  Father." 

"  Mamma  is  asleep,"  be  said ;  "when  she  awakes  I  will  call  her." 

"No,  no,  papa;  Eve  asleep  then." 

"I  will  call  her  at  once,  then,  darling,"  and  he  would  have  moved,  but 
the  little  hand  was  laid  on  his  to  arrest  him. 

"No — don't  wake  poor  mamma;  papa,  say  'Our  Father'  for  Eve." 

"  Will  Eve  say  it  to  papa  ?  Speak,  then,  my  darling,"  he  added,  finding 
that  though  the  hands  were  clasped,  and  the  sweet  eyes  devoutly  closed,  Eva 
remained  silent. 

"No — Eve  too  sick,  papa — Eve  can't  talk  so  much.  Papa  kneel  down 
and  say  Our  Father,  like  mamma  did  last  night — won't  you,  papa?" 

Easton  Hastings  could  not  resist  that  pleading  voice ;  and  kneeling,  he 
laid  his  hands  over  the  clasped  ones  of  his  child,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  murmured  it  with  childish  earnestness  in  his  mother's  ear, 
his  lips  gave  utterance  to  that  hallowed  form  of  prayer  which  was  given 
to  man  by  a  divine  teacher.  At  sueh  an  hour,  under  such  circumstances, 
it  could  not  lie  uttered  carelessly ;  and  Easton  Hastings  understood  its 
solemn  import,  its  recognition  of  God's  sovereignty,  its  surrender  of  all 
things  to  Him.  He  understood  it,  we  say,  but  he  trembled  at  it.  His 
infidelity  was  annihilated,  but  he  believed  as  the  unreconciled  believe,  and 
his  heart  almost  stood  still  with  fear  while  "Thy  will  be  done  on  earth 
as  it  is  in  heaven,"  fell  slowly  from  his  lips. 

Soothed  by  his  compliance.  Eve  became  still,  and  seemed  to  sleep,  but 
only  for  a  few  minutes.  Suddenly,  in  a  louder  voice  than  had  been  heard 
within  that  room  for  days,  she  exclaimed,  "  Papa,  papa,  see  there — up 
there,  papa!" 


MARIA    J.   McINTOSH.  175 

Her  own  eyes  were  fixed  upward,  on  the  ceiling,  as  it  seemed  to  Easton 
Hastings,  for  to  him  nothing  else  was  visible,  while  a  smile  of  joy  played  on 
her  lips,  and  her  arms  were  stretched  upward  as  to  some  celestial  visitant. 

" Eve  coming !"  she  cried  again.     "Take  Eve!" 

"  Will  Eve  leave  papa?"  cried  Easton  Hastings,  while  unconsciously 
he  passed  his  arm  over  her,  as  if  dreading  that  she  would  really  bo  borne 
from  him, 

With  eyes  still  fixed  upward,  and  expending  her  last  strength  in  an 
effort  to  rise  from  the  bed,  Eve  murmured  in  broken  tones,  "  Papa  come, 
too — mamma — grandpa — little  brother — dear  papa  " 

The  last  word  could  have  been  distinguished  only  by  the  intensely- 
listening  ear  of  love.  It  ended  in  a  sigh ;  and  Easton  Hastings  felt,  even 
while  he  still  clasped  her  cherub  form,  and  gazed  upon  her  sweetly  smil- 
ing face,  that  his  Eve  had  indeed  left  him  forever.  That  she  had  ceased 
to  exist,  with  the  remembrance  of  that  last  scene  full  in  his  mind,  he 
could  not  believe.  Henceforth,  heaven  with  its  angels,  the  ministering 
spirits  of  the  Most  High,  was  a  reality,  it  was  the  habitation  of  his  Eve, 
and  his  own  heart  went  longingly  forth  to  it.  His  proud,  stern,  \inbend- 
ing  nature  had  been  taught  to  tremble  at  the  decree  of  "  Him  who  ruleth 
over  the  armies  of  heaven  and  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth  " — the 
Being  and  Xature  upon  which  he  had  hitherto  speculated  as  grand  abstrac- 
tions, became  at  once  unspeakably  interesting  facts.  Would  lie  contend 
with  him  in  wrath  ?  Would  he  snatch  from  him,  one  by  one,  the  bless- 
ings of  his  life,  crushing  the  impious  heart  which  had  reviled  His  attributes 
and  denied  His  existence?  Or  was  He  indeed  "so  long  suffering,"  so 
"plenteous  in  mercy,"  that  He  would  prove  even  to  him  that  His  might 
was  the  might  of  a  Saviour? 


A  SOUTHERN  HOME. 

nome !  nome  !  I  have  had  too  many  resting-places  in  my  not  very 
long  life — this  is  my  twentieth  birthday — but  I  have  had,  I  can  have,  but 
one  home.  For  eight  years  I  have  not  seen  it  with  the  bodily  eye,  and 
yet  how  vividly  it  stands  before  me!  A  week  ago,  I  determined  to  paint 
it.  and  the  picture,  to  whicli  I  have  given  every  moment  of  leisure,  is 
done ;    here    in    this    record   of    thought    and     feeling    meant    only    for 


17(1  WOMEN'    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

myself,  I    may  say  what   I   truly  think,  that   it   is  well  done ;    but  I  am 
not  satisfied. 

There  is  the  very  beach  on  which  I  gathered  shells  with  my  faithful 
nurse,  my  kind,  devoted  Charity.  To  the  eastward,  the  blue  waves  are 
lifting  their  white  foam-crests  to  the  sun;  inland,  I  can  distinguish  amid 
the  mass  of  verdure  which  marked  the  almost  tropical  luxuriance  of  St. 
Mary's  Isle,  the  glistening  leaves  of  the  orange-trees  only  half  concealing 
their  snowy  flowers  and  golden  fruit,  and  the  darker  green  of  the  old 
oaks,  "the  king  of  forests  all,"  from  whose  giant  boughs  the  long  pen- 
dent moss  suspends  its  floating  drapery  of  silvery  grey.  Within  the  circle 
of  those  live  oaks,  rises  the  home  which  sheltered  my  orphan  childhood; 
a  frame  building,  two  stories  in  height,  and  surrounded  by  a  piazza,  whose 
pillars  wreathed  with  roses,  honey-suckles,  and  woodbine,  gave  something 
of  airy  brightness  to  what  would  otherwise  have  been  without  ornament 
and  grace. 

VIOLET ;  OR  THE  CROSS  AND  CROWN". 

Mr.  Devereux  went  to  his  little  bed,  up  stairs,  with  a  pleasant  feeling 
that  he  had  this  night  done  the  work  appointed  to  him  by  heaven.  With 
loving  thoughts  of  her  who  was  now  associated  with  every  noble  endeavor  of 
his  life,  with  pleasant  dreams  of  a  blissful  future  spent  with  her — dreams 
with  which  the  storm-sounds  mingled  strangely,  seeming  to  give  intensity  to 
his  enjoyment  of  their  perfect  peacefulness — he  fell  asleep.  When  he  awoke, 
the  dull  grey  light  of  the  morning  was  shining  in  at  his  little  window,  and. 
even  with  consciousness  half  restored,  the  noise  of  loud  voices  below  him 
mingling  with  the  raging  of  the  storm,  made  him  start  up  and  look  out. 
Oh,  for  the  pencil  of  a  Salvator,  to  present  the  scene  on  which  ho  gazed! 
The  mad  waters,  white  with  the  foam  of  the  breakers,  rushed  hissing  and 
roaring,  far  up  the  beach,  looking,  at  times,  as  if  they  would  dash  themselves 
into  the  very  window  at  which  he  stood,  while  the  wild  winds  flung  their 
spray  far,  far  beyond.  On  the  beach  were  men  and  women,  shrieking, 
screaming,  fighting,  plunging  into  the  roaring  waves  to  snatch  a  trunk,  a  bale 
of  goods,  a  keg,  as  it  floated  up  amidst  broken  spars  and  timbers;  and,  Oh, 
horror!  were  those  dead  bodies?  Dimly  seen  at  one  moment,  completely 
shut  out  by  the  driving  rain  and  spray  at  the  next,  seeming  so  near  the  shore 
that  Mr.  Devereux  believed  he  could  swim  to  it,  lay  the  ship,  or  rather  the 


MARIA    J.    Mc  IX  TOSH.  177 

remains  of  it,  careening  to  the  shore  till  the  water  nearly  reached  the  top  of 
its  leeward  bulwarks,  and  its  one  mast  scarcely  maintained  an  angle  of  forty- 
five  degrees  with  the  horizon.  The  stern,  and  even  so  far  forward  as  the 
mainmast,  was  either  already  gone,  or  lay  so  dee])  that  the  sea  broke  over  it 
continuously.  An  instant  had  been  enough  to  give  Mr.  Devereux  the  main 
features  of  this  scene,  and,  hastily  flinging  on  his  clothes,  he  sprang  down  the 
steps,  and  emerged  among  the  excited  actors  on  the  beach.  He  found  Ben 
Ham  and  Mike  among  the  most  eager  of  them,  though  obliged  to  fight,  not 
with  the  elements  only,  but  often  with  the  angry  men  around  them  for  their 
possessions.  Listening  to  the  outcries  against  them,  he  soon  discovered  that 
no  suspicion  was  entertained  of  their  agency  in  extinguishing  the  light,  last 
night.  He  afterward  learned  that  it  was  the  custom  for  the  one  first  on  the 
ground  in  the  morning  to  do  this ;  and  that  he  who  had  found  it  done  this 
morning  supposed,  naturally  enough,  that  another  had  been  before  him,  and 
in  the  following  excitement,  no  inquiry  had  been  made.  For  Mr.  Devereux 
himself,  there  was  hut  one  thought,  one  excitement,  in  this  scene.  Were 
there  lives  on  board  that  ship  which  might  yet  be  saved?  He  shouted  the 
question  into  the  ears  of  more  than  one,  but  could  obtain  no  answer ;  none 
seemed  to  have  thought  of  it.  He  rushed  into  the  house  for  a  glass  which 
always  hung  in  Dick  Van  Dyke's  cabin,  and,  finding  a  rest  for  it,  he  kept  his 
eye  steadily  directed  to  the  wreck  for  several  minutes.  Suddenly  throwing 
the  glass  aside,  he  sprang  down  to  the  shore,  and  seizing  Ben  Ham,  shouted, 
"  There  are  living  creatures  on  that  wreck — a  man  and  a  woman !  Let  us 
try  to  save  them  !  A  hundred  dollars  for  you,  if  we  bring  them  safe  to 
land." 

A  hundred  dollars !  It  seemed  a  fortune  to  the  wrecker.  He  looked 
around  him  carefully,  measured  the  distance  to  the  wreck  with  his  eye,  noted 
the  direction  of  the  wind  and  the  height  of  the  tide;  then,  shaking  his  head, 
sent  back  the  cry,  "Ef  I'd  more  'an  one  life,  I'd  try." 

"  And  shall  we  stand  here,  like  cowards,  and  see  a  woman  die  before  us?" 
cried  Mr.  Devereux.  excited  as  he  had  never  been  in  his  whole  life  before. 
"I  will  not  do  it,  at  any  rate!  nave  you  a  mortar  here  ?  Perhaps  we  may 
send  a  rope  on  board  !" 

There  was  none. 

"  Where  is  the  nearest  life-boat?  I  will  go  in  her  alone,  if  no  one  of  you 
is  man  enough  to  aid  me  !" 

On  that  whole  coast,  from  Sandy  Hook  to  Cape  May,  there  was  not  a 
life-boat. 

12 


178  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"A  rope!  Briug  me  a  rope!  I  will  swim  out  with  it!"  he  cried,  in 
desperation. 

There  was  no  rope  to  be  found  fitted  for  such  a  purpose. 

"  Is  there  nothing  by  which  life  can  he  saved?  There!  there!  do  you 
see  that  woman  ?     Must  she  die  before  us  I" 

Look,  gesture,  the  sharp  agony  in  his  voice,  more  than  his  words,  awoke 
some  responsive  feeling  in  two  or  three  of  the  women  among  his  auditors. 

"  There's  the  yawl  in  the  lagoon,"  cried  one ;  "  I  guess  she  couldn't  upset 
easy." 

"  She  wouldn't  upset,  but  she'd  go  to  pieces  in  five  minutes  in  sich  a  sea," 
rejoined  Ben  Ham.     Mr.  Devereux  did  not  hear,  or  would  not  heed. 

'•  Fifty — a  hundred  dollars  for  every  man  that  will  help  me  launch  that 
boat,  and  row  her  to  the  wreck !"  he  shouted. 

"  Ef  the  boat  was  yere,  an'  'twas  ebb  tide,  we  might  try,"  said  Ben  Ham ; 
"  but  it's  up  in  the  lagoon,  an'  we'd  he  tell  next  week  rowing  to  the  inlet  and 
up  yere." 

"  Why  not  drag  it  across  the  beach?" 

"  A  heavy,  six-oared  yawl  'cross  this  san'  half  a  mile?" 

A  cart  was  at  this  moment  driven  up  from  Manasquam,  whose  inhabi- 
tants had  seen  the  wreck,  and  were  coming  to  put  their  sickles  into  the 
horrid  harvest.  Mr.  Devereux  seized  the  driver,  made  a  bargain  with  him 
for  his  horse,  found  his  own  driver  and  secured  his  team,  and  in  less  than  an 
hour  the  yawl  was  lying  on  the  shore.  But  it  was  still  flood  tide.  The  tide, 
however,  was  just  on  the  turn.  In  two  hours,  even  in  an  hour,  it  would  be 
strong  ebb.  The  wind  would  probably  lull  then,  and  there  would  be  a 
chance,  at  least,  of  success  in  their  efforts.  Now  there  was  none.  Mr. 
Devereux  was  obliged  to  yield,  though  lie  questioned,  sadly,  "Will the  wreck 
last  till  then  ?"  He  would  willingly,  with  his  present  excited  feelings,  have 
accepted  the  greater  risk  for  himself  of  earlier  action  ;  hut  what  could  he  do 
with  such  a  boat  without  aid  ?  The  interval  was  passed  in  doing  everything 
possible,  at  such  a  time,  to  strengthen  the  boat  against  the  action  of  the 
waves.  The  time  seemed  ages  to  Mr.  Devereux.  Again  and  again  he  con- 
sulted his  watch,  again  and  again  pointed  the  glass  to  the  wreck,  and  searched 
for  those  who  were  waiting  there  face  to  face  with  death. 

The  tide  had  been  running  out  for  about  an  hour  and  a  half,  when  he 
sprang  from  the  glass  to  the  group  at  work  upon  the  boat,  crying:  "There 
is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost!  The  man  has  jumped  overboard,  and  is  swim- 
ming to  the  shore !     He  would  not  have  done  this,  had  not  the  wreck  been 


MARIA    J.   McINTOSH.  1 V 9 

parting !  ffe  must  be  off  now  or  never !  I  am  a  good  coxswain  myself.  I 
have  held  the  helm  in  a  sea  as  rough  as  this,  and  come  safe  to  land !  Who 
are  the  best  oarsmen  among  you?" 

He  spoke  to  Ben  Ham,  who  pointed  out  five  besides  himself,  as  entitled 
to  this  honor.  Mr.  Devereux  called  them  around  him.  "Now,  men!"  he 
cried,  "You  ought  to  be  brave,  for  you  are  Americans!  I  am  an  English- 
man, and  I  am  going  to  that  wreck !  Will  you  let  it  be  said  that  an  English- 
man is  braver  than  Americans  ?  A  hundred  dollars  to  every  man  of  you 
that  will  follow  me!"  He  sprang  into  the  boat,  shouting:  "Hurra  for 
America  !     Hurra  for  a  hundred  dollars!" 

He  had  suited  his  speech  to  his  auditory,  and  every  man  he  had  selected 
sprang  in  after  him  and  seized  an  oar.  "  Something  to  bale  with!"  cried  Ben 
Ham,  putting  his  hands  up  to  his  mouth  for  a  trumpet,  and  Katy  threw 
them  a  tin  pail. 

The  tide  was  in  their  favor,  the  wind  against  them.  This  opposition, 
though  the  wind  had  fallen  considerably,  created  a  fearful  sea.  The  broad, 
fiat-bottomed  yawl  it  would  be  scarcely  possible  to  upset,  but  it  would 
require  the  quick  eye  and  hand  of  a  master  steersman  to  prevent  her  being 
filled  by  the  pursuing  waves,  and,  rowing  heavily  under  any  circumstances, 
with  the  wind  against  them,  their  progress  must  be  slow.  Mr.  Devereux's 
brow  grew  stern,  his  lips  compressed,  his  eye  fixed,  as  their  boat  hung  on 
the  crest  of  a  mountain  wave  for  one  brief  moment,  then  toppled  down  to 
mount  the  precipitous  side  of  another.  In  the  second  in  which  it  reached 
the  depth  between,  lay  their  great  danger.  They  soon  encountered  another 
peril.    They  were  among  the  drifting  spars  and  broken  timbers  of  the  wreck. 

A  collision  with  a  heavy  timber  would  be  a  fearful  trial  to  their  boat. 
He  must  change  his  course ;  he  could  not  steer  directly  across  the  waves,  as 
he  had  hitherto  done,  to  prevent  her  encountering  their  full  power  on  her 
broadside.  With  a  resolute  spirit  and  a  firm  hand,  though  with  an  eye  that 
saw  all  the  danger;  the  change  was  made — they  were  out  of  the  line  of  the 
wreck. 

"Look  there!     It's  Dick  Van  Dyke!"  shouted  one  of-the  men. 

On  the  very  crest  of  a  wave,  about  twice  an  oar's  length  from  their 
course,  rose  the  head  of  a  man — the  face  turned  directly  to  them,  and  the 
wild,  staring  eyes  seeming  to  entreat  their  aid.  Mr.  Devereux  could  not 
resist  their  appeal,  though  he  saw  the  danger;  the  boat  veered,  and  at  the 
same  moment  a  huge  wave  broke  over  her,  and  nearly  filled  her  with 
water.     There   was  a  simultaneous  shriek   from  the  men;    but   above   the 


180  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

hoarse  shriek,  and  the  hoarser  roar  of  the  waves  rose  the  shout  of  the  master 
spirit—"  Ham,  bale  the  boat !     Use  your  oars,  men— all  is  safe !" 

The  prow  was  again  turned  to  the  wave,  and  Dick  Van  Dyke  could  be 
seen  no  more.     He  must  be  left  to  his  fate. 

"  Must  be  the  Edward  an'  Mary.  Spriggins  tells  me  he  was  gone  in  her 
to  bring  his  darter  back,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"What  darter— the  lady?"  asked  Ben  Ham,  who  sat  nearest  to  Mr. 
Devereux. 

"  Yes;  he  an't  got  no  other  darter,  as  I  knows  on." 
"O,  Mr.  Duvo!"— Ben  turned  to  him,  but  he  proceeded  no  further. 
There  was  something  in  that  face,  in  those  eyes,  which  told  that  he  had 
heard  and  comprehended,  and  which  at  the  same  time  rendered  any  words 
on  the  subject  from  another  well-nigh  impossible.  His  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  that  swaying  wreck,  yet,  as  if  by  a  species  of  intuition,  he  guided  the 
boat  unerringly  along  the  only  safe  course.  Thousands  of  drowning  men 
might  pass  him  now— he  would  not  swerve  a  hair's  breath  from  the  line  he 
had  marked  out.  Once  only  he  removed  his  eyes  from  the  wreck,  to  glance 
at  the  rowers.  They  know  it  is  to  hurry  them— they  see  it  in  his  face, 
though  he  speaks  no  word— and  they  bend  to  their  oars.  Thus  they  reach 
the  lee  of  the  wreck.  There  is  no  time  to  lose,  for  the  mast  is  rising  and 
Milking  with  every  wave.  Mr.  Devereux  springs  from  the  boat,  resting  one 
hand  upon  the  low  leaning  bulwark,  and  he  is  on  board.  The  very  impulse 
sends  the  boat  off,  and  a  wave  dashes  over  her ;  but  she  is  brought  up  again, 
and  Ben  Ham  bales  her  out  carefully,  while  another  man  catches  a  rope 
suspended  over  the  side,  and  reeves  it  through  the  block  in  the  boat's 
stern. 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Devereux  has  entered  the  forecastle.  He  sees  no 
one  else ;  his  eye  darts  at  once  to  that  corner  where  she  lies,  as  we  have 
already  described  her ;  her  white  hands  folded  over  the  dark  grey  cloak, 
whose  hood  is  drawn  closely  around  her  white  face ;  her  eyes  are  closed. 
Peaceful  as  an  angel's  is  the  expression  of  that  face.  He  bends  over  her.  and 
says  "  Violet " — there  are  volumes  of  tenderness  in  that  one  word  so  pro- 
nounced. Her  eyes  unclose — a  smile  soft  and  happy  as  an  infant's  when  it 
awakes  in  its  mother's  arms,  parts  her  pale  lips.  "I  dreamed  you  were 
come,"  she  whispers,  as  he  lifts  her  in  his  arms,  and  her  head  falls  upon  his 
shoulder.  He  bears  her  out  upon  the  deck,  and,  without  relinquishing  her, 
descends  to  the  boat,  steadying  his  steps  by  grasping  the  rope  with  his  other 
hand.     As  he  resumes  his  seat  in  the  stern,  he  places  her  beside  him,  still 


MARIA    J.   McINTOSH.  181 

clasping  her  with  one  arm,  while  he  prepares  to  guide  the  hoat  with  the 
other;  come  what  will,  they  will  bear  it  together.  He  glances  for  a  moment 
at  her  as  she  rests,  exhausted  almost  to  unconsciousness,  upon  him.  The 
smile  is  still  upon  her  lips,  her  eyes  remain  closed ;  she  asks  not  whither  he 
is  hearing  her  ;  she  does  not  even  look  to  see  where  she  is;  she  is  with  him 
— with  him — that  is  enough  for  her.  She  remembers  others,  however.  "  Is 
Luce  here?"  she  whispers;  "and  Harrington?"  lie  looks  around;  he  sees  a 
negro  man  and  woman  seated  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  he 
answers,  "Yes,  they  are  here." 

They  are  upon  their  homeward  way — against  the  tide  now.  Every  face 
wears  an  intensely  earnest  expression ;  they  know  that  every  stroke  now  is 
for  life.  Her  face  is  close  beside  him — her  breath  fans  his  cheek — yet  he 
never  withdraws  his  eye  for  a  moment  from  his  course  ;  but  he  holds  her 
fast — his  now,  for  life  or  for  death.  Wave  after  wave  rushes  over  the  prow. 
Harrington  bales  constantly ;  they  scarcely  seem  to  move,  so  slow  is  their 
progress.  At  length  the  haven  is  almost  won;  but  the  boat  strikes  the  sharp 
point  of  a  piece  of  timber,  a  relic  of  some  former  wreck  imbedded  in  the 
sand ;  there  is  a  sudden  crash,  followed  by  a  rush  of  water  into  the  hoat ; 
even  here,  just  touching  shore,  the  waves  may  ingulf  them,  and  sweep  them 
back.  But,  no  !  she  has  been  recognized,  and,  with  a  thrilling  cry  of  "  The 
lady!  the  lady!"  the  men — eight  or  ten  in  number,  for  many  have  come 
from  Manasquam— join  hands,  and,  rushing  down  into  the  foaming  surf, 
seize  the  boat,  and  drag  it  with  its  load  on  shore.  All  sternness  has  vanished 
from  Mr.  Devereux's  face  now.  Still  clasping  his  sweet  burden  to  his  breast 
he  rises  and  bears  her  toward  the  house ;  but  his  eyes  are  blinded  by  tears,  and, 
unable  to  speak,  he  grasps  in  silence  the  rough  hands  extended  to  him  as  he 
passes.  It  is  his  only  answer  to  their  hurras  and  blessings.  Every  eye  is 
fixed  upon  the  pale  face  resting  on  his  shoulder;  and  the  women  sob  aloud 
their  thanks  that  she  is  safe,  while  men's  voices,  husky  with  emotion,  are 
heard  uttering  a  fervent  "God  bless  her!" 


THE  RIVEN  HEART. 

A  friend!  and  thine  the  ruthless  part 
To  break  the  bruised  reed  ; 

Coldly  to  spurn  the  trusting  heart 
In  time  of  deepest  need. 


182  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

To  quench  the  lingering,  quivering  ray 
Of  Hope's  just  dying  light, 

Thus  spreading  o'er  life's  onward  way 
One  deep  unbroken  night. 

To  pour  upon  the  burning  brain 
The  lava  flood  of  scorn ; 

With  careless  hand  the  nerve  to  touch 
"  Where  agony  is  born !" 


FROWN  NOT. 

Nay,  frown  not — though  the  world's  cold  look 

My  spirit  heeds  not  now, 
I  cannot  for  a  moment  brook 

A  shadow  on  thy  brow. 

Dark  clouds  may  speck  the  azure  sky, 

Yet  while  in  golden  light 
The  sun  looks  forth — earth  meets  his  eye 

In  smiles  serene  and  bright  ; — 

But  should  some  shadow  o'er  his  beams 

A  passing  vapor  throw, 
Quick  fade  from  hills,  and  plains,  and  streams, 

The  gladness  and  the  glow. 


NO  MORE. 

Think  on't  no  more !     Say,  canst  thou  chain 

The  lightning's  arrowy  flash  ? 
Or  with  a  silken  curb  restrain 

The  wave's  tempestuous  dash  ? 

Hast  thou  a  magic  wand  to  lay 

The  struggling  winds  to  sleep? 
Or  in  its  mid  career  to  stay 

The  fierce  tornado's  sweep  ? 


maria  j.  Mcintosh.  183 

These  done — yet  dream  not  thou  eanst  bind 

The  electric  flash  of  thought, 
Or  still  with  charmed  words  the  mind 

By  passion  tempest-wrought ! 


ASPIRATION. 

As  I  watch  the  stars,  I  strive  and  strain 
To  fling  from  my  soul  the  earth-fiend's  chain ; 
But  its  hated  links  must  clasp  me  round, 
Till  a  mightier  will  than  his  be  found 
To  set  my  struggling  spirit  free. 

A  star  shed  down  its  silvery  light 
On  my  pearly  conch  in  heaven  each  night ; 
And  well,  by  its  beam  serene  and  clear, 
I  knew  the  spirit  I  loved  was  near. 
Oh  !  for  one  gleam  of  his  cheering  ray, 
To  drive  earth's  darkening  shades  away, 
And  set  my  struggling  spirit  free. 


Star  of  my  life !  again — again, 

Thy  radiant  beams  are  round  me  poured, 
My  struggling  soul  has  burst  its  chain, 

And  now,  like  a  joyous  bird,  I've  soared, 
Upborne  by  thy  mysterious  power, 
To  my  home  of  bliss — my  heavenly  bower. 

Its  flowers  are  fresh  with  the  dews  of  night, 
Its  clouds  are  bright  with  the  sun's  last  gleam, 

And  there  I  sport  in  thy  golden  light, 

And  win  new  strength  from  thy  every  beam, 

Or  sail  on  the  winds  in  a  cloudy  car, 

With  thee  for  my  guide — my  glorious  star! 


ALMLRA    LINCOLN    PHELPS. 

It  is  a  somewhat  significant  fact  that,  among  all  our  dis- 
tinguished literary  women,  only  two  have  the  honor  of  mem- 
hership  in  the  American  Association  for  the  advancement  of 
Science,  and  in  these  two  both  the  North  and  the  South  are 
represented.  In  this  connection,  the  names  of  Maria  Mitchell, 
the  astronomer  of  Nantucket,  and  Almira  Lincoln  Phelps,  the 
educator  and  scientific  writer  of  Baltimore,  need  hardly  to  be 
specified. 

Samuel  Hart,  the  father  of  Mrs.  Phelps,  was  a  descendant 
of  Thomas  Hooker,  who  was  distinguished  as  the  first  minister 
of  Hartford,  and  the  founder  of  Connecticut. 

Almira  Hart,  the  youngest  of  a  large  family,  was  born  in 
Berlin,  Conn.,  in  1793,  and  began  very  early  to  develop  a 
fondness  for  intellectual  pursuits.  She  was  for  years  the  pupil 
of  her  elder  sister,  Mrs.  Emma  Willard,  a  name  also  well 
known  to  fame.  In  1811,  she  was  placed  at  the  seminary  of 
Miss  Hinsdale,  at  Pittsfield,  Mass.,  and  soon  after  married 
Simeon  Lincoln,  editor  of  the  "  Connecticut  Mirror,"  in  Hart- 
ford. 

Left  a  widow  with  two  children  at  the  age  of  thirty,  all  the 
energy  and  earnestness  of  Mrs.  Lincoln's  character  was  called 
in  requisition.  After  settling  satisfactorily  the  insolvent  estates 
of  her  husband  and  his  father,  she  applied  herself  vigorously  to 
the  study  of  Latin  and  Greek  and  the  natural  sciences,  the  art 
of  drawing  and  painting,  and  such  other  pursuits  as  she  con- 
sidered necessary  to  a  thorough  preparation  for  the  work  she 

184 


ALMIRA    LINCOLN    PHELPS.  185 

contemplated — the  education  of  the  young.  She  then  passed 
seven  years  as  pupil  and  teacher  in  the  seminary  of  Mrs.  Wil- 
lard,  at  Troy. 

In  1831,  she  married  the  Hon.  John  Phelps,  a  distinguished 
lawyer  and  statesman  of  Vermont,  in  which  State  she  resided 
for  the  next  six  years. 

In  1S39,  she  accepted  an  invitation  to  preside  over  the 
Female  Seminary  at  West  Chester,  Pa. ;  and  in  1841,  removed 
to  Maryland,  where  she  and  her  husband  united  in  establishing 
the  Petapsco  Female  Institute,  one  of  the  best-planned  and 
most  nourishing  schools  of  the  country.  The  literary  repu- 
tation of  Mrs.  Phelps  attracted  hither  the  daughters  of  the 
South  and  West,  and  no  southern  State,  especially,  has  ever 
been  without  a  representative  in  the  halls  of  Petapsco.  Even 
from  Texas  and  the  extreme  bounds  of  Arkansas  and  Missouri, 
came  pupils  who  had  read  the  books  of  Mrs.  Phelps,  or  been 
instructed  by  teachers  whom  she  had  educated,  to  test  their 
scholarship  and  finish  their  course  at  this  fountain-head  of 
science. 

While  engaged  actively  as  an  educator,  the  literary  labors 
of  Mrs.  Phelps  were  confined  chiefly  to  the  revision  of  her 
works,  of  which  not  less  than  one  million  copies  have  been 
circulated.  During  this  period,  however,  her  pen  was  busily 
employed  for  her  pupils. 

Blending  the  amusing  with  the  didactic,  she  wrote  stories 
and  plays  for  the  holidays,  which  afforded  great  entertainment 
to  her  pupils  and  their  friends.  Among  her  dramatic  pieces, 
"  Dolly  Ann  Grimes "  and  "  The  Reformation  "  were  often 
repeated  and  with  no  little  eclat.  "  Ida  Norman,  or  Trials 
and  Their  Uses,"  was  first  read  in  weekly  series  to  the  young 
ladies,  but  has  since  been  published  and  widely  circulated. 

To  her  former  pupils  in  their  distant  homes,  the  salutary 
precepts  of  Mrs.  Phelps  recur  with  great  power.     Cultivated 


186  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

and  disciplined  by  her  system  of  teaching,  encouraged  by  her 
firm  trust  in  the  finer  instincts  of  their  natures,  they  remember 
her  earnest  appeals  with  a  gratitude  that  grows  and  deepens  as 
the  years  roll  on.  A  note  which  we  have  just  received  from  a 
young  Virginian,  once  a  pupil  at  Petapsco,  pays  noble  tribute 
to  Mrs.  Phelps  as  an  educator,  author,  and  Christian. 

In  1849,  Mrs.  Pherps  was  again  left  a  widow  ;  and  in  1855, 
deprived,  by  a  sad  casualty,  of  an  accomplished  and  affec- 
tionate daughter,  whose  influence  and  sympathy  had  lightened 
not  a  little  her  weight  of  responsibilities,  she  addressed  her  last 
class  of  graduates,  and,  deeply  regretted  by  all,  resigned  the 
position  she  had  so  long  and  honorably  filled. 

But  in  her  quiet  and  elegant  home  in  the  city  of  Baltimore, 
she  still  holds  herself  in  tender  relation  to  her  pupils,  and  not 
a  week  passes  without  bringing  to  her  a  kindly  recognition 
from  some  one  of  her  large  family  of  intellectual  daughters. 

Represented  in  every  State  of  the  Union  by  these  flourishing 
offshoots  of  her  institution,  as  well  as  by  her  valuable  scientific 
works  —  surrounded  by  cultivated  friends,  she  retains  her 
youthful  freshness  and  vigor,  and  demonstrates  the  art — so 
nearly  a  "  lost  art "  among  American  women — of  "  growing 
old  gracefully." 

It  is  her  greatest  pleasure  to  do  the  honors  of  her  house 
and  heart,  not  only  to  her  friends,  but  to  all  who  have  any 
claim  upon  her  hospitality,  especially  to  those  who,  like  herself, 
have  done  the  world  good  service. 

Mrs.  Lincoln  Phelps'  published  works  are  as  follows  : 

"  Lectures  on  Botany." 

"  Botany  for  Beginners." 

"  Lectures  on  Chemistry." 

"  Chemistry  for  Beginners." 

"  Lectures  on  Natural  Philosophy." 

"  Philosophy  for  Beginners." 


ALMIRALINCOLNPHELPS.  187 

"  Dictionary  of  Chemistry,  translated  from  the  French,  with  History  of 
the  Science." 

"  Female  Student  and  Fireside  Friend." 

"  Caroline  Westerly,"  a  juvenile. 

"  Geology  for  Beginners." 

Translation  of  Madame  Necker  de  Saussure's  "  Progressive  Education," 
with  ••  A  Mother's  Journal,"  by  Mrs.  Willard  and  Mrs.  Phelps. 

"  Ada  Norman ;  or,  Trials  and  Their  Uses." 

"  Hours  with  My  Pupils." 

"  Christian  Households."  Published  for  the  benefit  of  the  Baltimore 
"  Church  Home." 

Her  first  publication,  which  is  widely  known  as  "  Lincoln's 
Botany,"  has  held  its  place  for  twenty-five  years  as  a  favorite 
text-book ;  while  her  "  Dictionary  of  Chemistry "  is  in  high 
repute  with  the  erudite  as  a  work  indicating  much  research  and 
scientific  knowledge. 

"  Female  Student  and  Fireside  Friend "  was  adopted  by 
the  Massachusetts  Board  of  Education  into  their  "  School 
Library,"  and  has  been  received  with  great  favor  at  home  and 
abroad. 

A  supplement  to  "  Lectures  on  Botany  for  Familiar  Teach- 
ing of  the  Natural  Science,"  is  now  in  press. 

Mrs.  Phelps  edited  for  some  time  the  "  Petapsco  Magazine," 
in  which  appeared  various  original  articles  in  prose  and  verse. 

In  early  life  she  was  much  given  to  poetical  compositions, 
but  scientific  proclivities  beginning  afterward  to  assert  them- 
selves strongly,  she  very  wisely  devoted  herself  to  her  specialty, 
and  secured  a  distinct  and  enviable  fame. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  FAMILY. 

In  New  England,  young  ladies  of  education  and  refinement  often  take 
charge  of  parlors,  and  sometimes  assist  their  mothers  in  doing  all  the 
household  work.     The  many  factories  in  the  eastern  section  of  our  coun- 


188  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

try,  offer  employment  of  an  easy  and  profitable  kind,  so  that  few  females 
are  willing  to  engage  in  domestic  service  when  they  can  get  better  wages 
in  factories,  and  live  independently  as  boarders  to  be  waited  upon.  Thus 
it  happens  that  those  who  could  hire  servants  are  often  obliged  to  do 
their  own  work  ;  to  look  after  their  own  houses  and  to  prepare  the  family 
meals. 

But  you  should  see  how  these  things  are  managed,  for  I  could  not 
otherwise  make  you  comprehend  the  neatness,  comfort,  and  order  which 
are  often  seen  to  prevail  in  those  families  in  the  eastern  States,  where 
the  mothers  and  daughters  do  the  household  work. 

Early  on  Monday  morning  all  are  up ;  the  mother,  perhaps,  engages  in 
preparing  the  breakfast,  while  the  daughters  commence  the  family's  wash- 
ing for  the  week.  They  have,  of  course,  all  been  careful  not  to  make 
unnecessary  washing.  Everything  is  life  and  activity — the  cheerful  voice 
of  singing  from  within,  mingles  with  the  matin  songs  of  the  birds  with- 
out. On  this  day,  a  simple  dinner  is  provided,  which  requires  little  time 
in  preparation,  but  for  which  labor  gives  a  keen  relish.  Before  the 
devotee  of  fashion  has  arisen  from  her  disturbed  and  restless  couch  the 
industrious  mother  and  daughters  have  finished  their  washing — clothes, 
white  as  the  driven  snow,  are  hanging  upon  the  lines,  and  the  kitchen 
and  wash  room  floors  are  nicely  washed.  Everything  is  put  in  place ; 
our  matron  and  her  blooming  daughters  are  dressed  for  company,  and 
very  likely  either  receive  some  good  neighbor,  or  go  out  and  take  tea 
sociably  with  a  friend.  And  such  teas!  The  snow-white  table-cloth,  the 
biscuit  or  rolls  scarcely  less  white,  the  honey  in  its  rich  comb,  the  deli- 
cious butter  made  by  fair  hands  which  are  perhaps  no  less  skillful  to 
play  upon  the  piano  than  to  perform  domestic  labor;  the  cake  of  several 
kinds,  the  nice  preserves,  and  the  exquisite  tea; — this  tea  not  put  into  a 
teapot  musty  through  neglect,  nor  decocted  with  water  below  the  boiling 
point ;  but  made  exactly  right  by  the  mistress  of  the  house,  who  esteems 
herself  responsible  for  her  housekeeping,  and  ranks  neatness,  care,  and 
economy  among  her  chief  duties. 

While  you  listen  to  my  description,  you  think  perhaps  of  a  vulgar 
mother  and  coarse-looking,  unrefined  daughters ; — would  that  I  could  take 
you  by  clairvoyance  to  some  one  of  the  intellectual  and  agreeable  families 
in  New  England,  where  is  realized  the  picture  I  have  drawn  of  a  home 
of  comfort  and  plenty. 

In  homes  where  there  are  no  daughters,  or  they  are  sent  abroad  for 


ALMIRA    LINCOLN    PHELPS.  189 

education,  a  young  girl  as  domestic  assistant  is  often  received  into  the 
family,  and  in  many  respects  treated  as  a  member  of  the  same.  She  is 
sent  to  the  public  school  until  she  has  obtained  a  good  common  English 
education,  rendering  in  the  meantime  most  useful  services  to  her  kind 
benefactors.  She  becomes  an  intelligent  and  useful  woman,  and  perhaps 
marries  the  son  of  a  neighboring  farmer ;  and  in  a  home  of  her  own, 
practises  those  lessons  of  industry  and  frugality  to  which  she  has  been 
trained.  But  this  may  be  rather  a  picture  of  past  times  that  of  the  pre- 
sent. The  great  influx  of  emigrants  in  every  part  of  our  country  renders 
it  more  easy  to  obtain  domestic  servants,  and  Bridgets  and  Noras,  with 
their  strong  hands  and  red,  brawny  arms,  are  relieving  their  more  deli- 
cate mistresses  of  the  burdens  they  formerly  so  cheerfully  bore.  Whether 
this  is  in  reality  increasing  the  happiness  of  society,  is  doubtful.  The 
feeble,  sickly  women  of  our  country,  drooping  and  nervous  for  want  of 
exercise,  would  indicate  the  negative. 


SOUTHERN   HOUSEKEEPERS. 

Most  of  you  young  ladies  from  the  southern  States  are  not  under  the 
necessity  of  performing  household  labor.  It  would  be  a  mistaken  kind- 
ness in  you  to  do  the  labor,  and  let  the  menials  live  in  idleness.  But 
yet  it  is  well  for  you  to  know  what  labor  is,  that  you  can  feel  sympathy 
for  them  ;  besides,  your  servant  may  be  sick,  and  humanity  may  require 
of  you  to  relieve  her  from  duty,  even  if  you  should  take  upon  yourself 
the  burden  of  her  labor.  Though  not  called  upon,  in  general,  to  servile 
labor,  you  are  not  excused  from  a  life  of  usefulness.  No  family  can  be 
well  ordered,  or  even  comfortable,  where  the  care,  as  well  as  the  labor, 
is  thrown  upon  servants.  I  would  hope  that  you  have  here  learned  to 
respect  the  virtues  of  industry  and  neatness,  and  with  your  other  accom- 
plishments, have  acquired  habits  of  order  and  system,  which  in  future  life 
will  be  more  important  to  you  than  the  merely  ornamental  branches  of 
education. 

To  woman  it  belongs  to  soothe  the  couch  of  sickness,  to  minister  to 
the  wants  of  declining  age,  to  diffuse  around  the  fireside  an  air  of  cheer- 
fulness and  comfort,  to  watch  over  the  wants  of  a  household,  and  to 
arrange  and  control  in  the  little  empire  of  home.  First,  as  daughters  you 
should   learn  to  minister   to   your   parents,   to   anticipate   their  wishes,  to 


190  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

study  their  happiness,  even  though  it  call  for  the  sacrifice  of  your  own 
enjoyments.  This  picture  may  be  far  different  from  the  one  in  your  fancy, 
where  gay  parties  with  all  the  excitements  of  a  life  of  pleasure  occupy 
the  foreground.  But  how  absurd  for  any  rational  mind  to  consider  the 
mere  accidental  circumstances  of  life  as  its  business  or  employment.  It 
was  said  by  Hannah  More,  one  of  the  greatest  and  best  of  women  of  the 
past  generation,  that,  "from  the  manner  in  which  girls  were  brought  up, 
one  would  suppose  that  life  was  a  perpetual  holiday,  and  that  the  great 
object  was  to  bring  them  up  to  shine  in  its  amusements  and  sports." 

Accomplishments  should  be  valued  chiefly  for  their  influence  in  ren- 
dering the  domestic  circle  more  cheerful  and  refined;  most  young  ladies 
seem  to  consider  them  as  only  intended  to  gain  for  them  the  homage  of 
admiration  in  society.  The  idea  of  merely  entertaining  their  parents, 
brothers  or  sister  with  their  accomplishments  would  seem  unreasonable; 
a  loss  of  time  and  trouble ;  a  very  dull  affair.  How  false,  how  destruc- 
tive to  the  happiness  of  domestic  life  are  such  low  views  of  education. 

You  disregard  the  happiness  of  your  parents  when  you  fail  to  do  your 
duty.  They  are  distressed  not  so  much  on  their  own  account,  as  that 
you  act  unworthily ;  they  perceive  in  you  a  low  standard  of  character,  a 
mean  selfishness,  which  would  seek  your  own  gratification  ;it  the  expense 
of  others;  an  exacting  spirit  which  is  never  satisfied  with  indulgence, 
and  which  ever  cries,  give,  give,  caring  little  for  the  giver,  but  eager  for 
the  gifts.  May  you  all  be  led  to  consider  whether  yon  do  not  too  often 
give  your  best  friends  reason  to  think  you  are  more  anxious  for  the  favors 
you  receive  from  them  than  to  contribute  to  their  happiness,  or  to  ren- 
der yourselves  worthy  recipients  of  their  kindness. 


TRUTH    AND    SINCERITY. 

The  essential  virtues  of  a  good  and  estimable  character  are  truth  and  sin- 
cerity. As  counterfeit  coin  or  bank  notes  are  without  any  real  worth  so 
are  all  affected  graces  and  assumed  goodness  destitute  of  any  claim  to  our 
regard.  He  who  counterfeits  money  is  severely  punished  by  the  laws  of  the 
land;  the  artful  and  hypocritical  are  justly  chastised  by  the'contempt  of  the 
good,  and  avoided  by  them,  as  the  honest  business  man  would  shun  such  as 
traffic  in  counterfeit  money.  But  most  persons  wish  to  appear  good  and 
amiable  in   the  eyes  of  others.      How    shall   this   be    accomplished?     The 


ALMIRA    LINCOLN    PHELPS.  191 

answer  is  plain ;  let  all  strive  to  render  themselves  such  as  they  would  be 
esteemed  ;  to  be  in  reality  what  they  would  appear  to  be,  and  then  there 
would  be  no  temptation  to  deceive,  or  put  on  the  semblance  of  virtue. 
Shakspeare  makes  Hamlet  say,  with  honest  indignation,  "I  know  not 
seems  f  happy  those  who  are  free  from  all  hypocrisy  and  disguise,  all  seeming 
to  be  what  in  reality  they  are  not. 

There  is  much  in  the  conventional  forms  of  society  which  leads  to  deceit, 
and  it  should  be  guarded  against.  One  can  be  civil  and  polite  without 
expressing  warmth  of  feeling  when  it  does  not  exist ;  it  is  not  necessary  to 
profess  delight  in  meeting  persons  for  whom  we  do  not  feel  any  particular 
interest ;  or  to  urge  such  to  visit  us,  or  to  correspond  with  us.  Are  there  no 
young  ladies  who  meet  others  with  enthusiastic  professions  of  regard,  and 
part  from  them  as  if  they  could  not  endure  a  separation,  when  in  reality, 
they  can  join  in  a  sneer  against  those  intimate  friends  ?  and  do  they  never 
use  the  very  confidence  reposed  in  them  against  the  unsuspecting  and  incau- 
tious? Would  that  such  evidence  of  duplicity  were  not  but  too  common 
even  amongst  those  whose  youth  should  be  a  pledge  for  artlessness  and  sin- 
cerity !  The  educator,  like  the  physician,  must  examine  cases  as  they  are  ; 
unfavorable  symptoms  cannot  be  overlooked  if  we  would  do  our  duty  to  our 
patients — or  our  pupils;  and,  morally  speaking,  the  latter  are  too  often  found 
affected  by  maladies  which  require  firm  and  judicious  moral  treatment. 

It  is  well  for  the  young  to  resolve  to  practise  what  is  right,  without  too 
much  anxiety  to  please  others.  The  boundaries  between  right  and  wrong 
are  often  obscure.  Thus  it  is  right  that  we  should  strive  to  render  ourselves 
agreeable  to  others,  to  say  and  do  that  which  will  make  them  satisfied  with 
themselves  and  with  us,  as  far  as  we  can  do  so  without  being  insincere ;  but 
there  are  some  who  cannot  be  happy  unless  they  are  flattered ;  praise  is  the 
incense  which  their  hearts  crave,  and  unless  this  is  constantly  offered,  they 
are  restless  and  dissatisfied ;  but  the  appetite  for  praise  grows  on  what  it 
feeds,  and  can  never  be  satisfied.  If  we  have  a  friend,  then,  who  is  not 
happy  unless  flattered,  it  is  our  duty  to  withhold  the  poison,  and  to  seek  by 
a  sincere  and  honest  treatment  to  bring  her  back  to  a  more  healthful  state  of 
mind.  For  a  time  we  may  be  the  less  agreeable  to  her;  it  may  be  that  a 
lasting  prejudice  may  spring  up  against  us  on  account  of  our  sincerity,  but  if 
so,  we  should  be  satisfied  that  we  have  done  our  duty. 

Flattery  among  school-girls  is  too  common  a  vice.  If  one  desires  the 
love  of  another,  she  too  often  commences  by  studying  her  weak  points; 
ami    in    how  many  are  these    self-love,  fondness    for    admiration,  and    an 


192  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

eager  desire  for  preeminence.  If  the  young  girl  is  vain  of  beauty,  the 
flatterer  tells  her  of  her  personal  attractions,  what  she  has  heard  such  a 
one  say  of  her  eyes,  her  features,  her  complexion,  or  her  form.  If  she  is 
proud  of  family  connections,  or  fortune,  the  flattery  is  of  a  different  kind. 
The  flatterer  talks  of  distinguished  persons  and  the  advantages  of  good 
family,  wonders  how  such  and  such  ones  should  presume  to  place  them- 
selves on  an  equality  with  those  who  are  entitled  to  exclusiveness,  inti- 
mates that  she  is  determined  to  associate  with  none  but  those  who  have 
certain  claims  to  family  distinction;  all  this,  of  course,  feeds  the  vanity 
of  her  who  is  thus  sought  out  by  one  who  is  so  very  particular  as  to  her 
society. 

Again,  another  young  lady  who  has  no  pretensions  to  beauty  and  makes 
none  as  to  family  or  fortune,  fancies  herself  highly  gifted  in  intellect;  she 
likes  to  be  told  of  her  talents,  and  is  inclined  to  love  those  who  praise  them, 
or  who  report  the  praises  of  others. 

What  a  sad  picture  is  that  of  one  rational  and  responsible  being,  for 
selfish  purposes,  acting  on  the  bad  propensities  of  another,  where  lying, 
insincerity,  and  flattery  are  seen  ministering  to  disgusting  vanity  or  pride ! 

If  you  desire  true  friendship,  seek  out  a  virtuous  and  sensible  person,  and 
let  your  intercourse  be  marked  with  honest  sincerity.  Despise  that  regard 
which  must  be  purchased  by  a  sacrifice  of  truth,  or  the  ministering  to  the 
follies  and  weaknesses  of  another.  One  who  is  truly  worthy  and  noble 
should  avoid  a  flatterer  whose  selfish  designs  may  be  easily  penetrated. 
When  we  hear  unpleasant  truths,  we  should  reflect  that  those  who  utter 
them  can  have  in  this  no  motive  but  our  own  good — unless,  indeed,  we  have 
reason  to  believe  that  they  desire  to  humiliate  us  in  our  own  eyes,  or  to 
render  us  unhappy ;  in  which  case,  we  cannot  consider  them  as  our  friends ; 
but  the  poet  says : 

"  Your  defects  to  know 

Make  use  of  every  friend  and  every  foe." 

It  is  one  of  the  most  sacred  duties  of  friendship,  though  often  a  painful  one, 
to  point  out  faults  to  a  beloved  friend ;  and  when  you  have  an  associate 
whom  you  believe  to  be  your  friend,  though  not  afraid  to  speak  the  truth, 
however  disagreeable  it  may  be  to  you  to  hear  it,  you  cannot  too  highly 
value  her  friendship. 


ALMIRA    LINCOLN    PHELPS  193 


BELLES. 

We  know  full  well  that  nothing  is  more  illusive  than  the  idea  of  the  great 
interest  which  the  world  takes  in  the  affairs  of  a  particular  individual,  and 
that  one,  a  young  girl,  with  merely  youth  and  youthful  attractions  to  recom- 
mend her  to  notice.  For  the  want  of  something  better  to  talk  about  in 
fashionable  circles,  the  appearance  of  a  new  candidate  for  admiration  may  be 
made  a  subject  of  conversation  ;  but  will  she  receive  unqualified  praise  ?  If 
beautiful,  she  may  be  condemned  as  vain ;  if  graceful,  as  affected  in  manners ; 
if  frank  and  ingenuous,  she  will  likely  be  called  imprudent;  and  if  cautious, 
artful.  If,  to  be  agreeable  to  the  many,  she  talk  on  common-place  topics,  she 
may  pass  for  one  who  has  a  shallow  intellect;  if  she  introduce  into  fashion- 
able circles,  literary  or  religious  subjects,  she  will  probably  be  shunned  as 
pedantic  or  bigoted.  If  she  should  have  admirers,  she  will  be  called  a  flirt ; 
if  she  should  have  none,  she  will  be  pitied  for  her  supposed  disappointment 
and  mortification.  If  the  young  lady  who  has  anticipated  so  much  from  her 
introduction  into  the  world  of  fashion,  or  what  is  called  society,  possess 
sensibility  and  principle,  she  will  soon  perceive  that  there  is  a  competition 
going  on  there,  in  its  nature  calculated  to  chill  the  better  feelings  of  the 
soul ;  that  under  the  mask  of  affected  benevolence,  and  desire  of  promoting 
mutual  happiness  by  bringing  to  the  common  stock  pleasure  and  enjoyment, 
are  concealed  frightful  passions,  "envy,  hatred,  and  malice,  and  all  uncha- 
ritableness,"  from  which  we  daily  pray  to  be  delivered.  After  the  labor  of 
so  many  years,  such  great  expense  of  time  and  money  to  gain  accomplish- 
ments that  may  secure  triumph  and  admiration,  after  the  toil  and  anxiety  of 
preparing  the  person  for  the  public,  the  young  lady,  perhaps,  finds  herself 
receiving  far  less  attention  than  some  one  whom  she  regards  as  her  inferior ; 
innocent,  that  one  may  be,  of  any  intentional  wrong  to  her,  but  mortification 
will  naturally  give  rise  to  jealousy,  which  begets  hatred. 

Allowing,  however,  that  our  young  lady  is  decidedly  the  belle  of  a  short 
season  or  two,  that  she  has  had  a  triumphant  entree  into  the  highest  circle, 
is  regarded  as  the  brightest  star  in  the  constellation  of  fashion,  can  we  sup- 
pose that  even  for  that  brief  period  she  is  happy?  If  she  possess  penetration, 
she  will  see  how  heartless  and  vain  are  the  homage  and  admiration  of  those 
who,  like  the  butterfly,  flit  from  flower  to  flower,  selfishly  seeking  pleasure 
and  amusement,  wholly  indifferent  as  to  the  effects  of  their  heartless  atten- 
tion  upon  the  future  happiness  of  those  whom  they  may  choose  to  flatter. 

13 


194  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

For  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  the  world  of  fashion  and  folly,  are  seldom 
found  men  of  true  sensibility  and  scrupulous  morals.  The  game  that  is  there 
going  on,  forbids  sucb  from  becoming  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of  "high 
life"  where  weak  principles  are  tested  by  the  artful  and  designing,  where 
fortune  attracts,  and  where  modest  merit,  unaccompanied  by  wealth  or  some 
prestige  which  is  an  equivalent  for  wealth,  can  find  no  place.  We  will  sup- 
pose  our  young  lady  has  become  quite  accustomed  to  fashionable  life ;  she 
has  gained  her  place  among  its  votaries — but  what  has  she  not  lost !  Late 
hours,  imprudence  in  dress,  exposure  to  the  impure  atmosphere  of  gaslights 
and  crowded  assemblies,  and  the  dainties  of  luxurious  banquets,  at  length 
undermine  her  health.  The  freshness  of  youth  has  faded,  her  spirits  are  no 
longer  buoyant ;  she  has  grasped  the  thorn,  but  the  rose  has  withered.  And 
the  warmth  of  affection,  the  simplicity  oi  heart  and  the  conscientiousness  of 
principle  which  were  seen  in  the  school-girl,  are  they,  too,  lost  ?  We  fear  so, 
and  yet  they  may  have  only  been  blighted  ;  a  timely  escape  from  the  ways 
of  folly,  and  a  return  to  healthful  influences,  may  revive  the  affections,  and 
rouse  the  conscience. 

In  that  career,  so  deleterious  both  to  the  physical  and  moral  nature,  the 
aspirant  for  fashionable  distinction,  before  becoming  a  victim  to  the  world, 
may  be  early  arrested  by  the  voice  of  conscience  and  withdraw  herself  from 
evil  influences,  while  she  has  yet  the  power  of  regaining,  in  some  degree, 
what  she  has  lost ; — before  she  shall  have  suffered  the  chagrin  of  being  con- 
sidered pastie,  neglected  by  the  world  for  which  she  had  sacrificed  herself. 
How  pitiable  the  woman  of  the  world,  whose  seared  heart  and  vitiated  taste 
render  her  incapable  of  enjoyments  which  spring  from  intellectual  pursuits, 
or  the  exercise  of  the  affections !  If  single,  she  will  be  forlorn  and  neglected ; 
if  a  wife  and  mother,  how  much  to  be  commiserated  are  those  who  are 
dependent  for  happiness  or  virtue  on  her  faithfulness  or  conscientiousness. 


-  14^.  a^^^U^J  c/^.xi^.w^ 


MARION    HARLAND. 

Popularity  is  not  always  a  test  of  worth  or  genius.  A  tale 
of  "love  and  murder,"  that  sets  every  particular  hair  on  end, 
may  have  a  sounding  sale,  without  possessing  one  element  of 
true  greatness.  But  when  a  story  of  home  life,  like  "  Alone," 
or  "  The  Hidden  Path,"  finds  the  spring  of  popular  favor,  we 
naturally  cast  about  for  the  secret  of  its  power,  and  are  forced 
to  acknowledge  a  magnetic  current  from  the  heart  hehind  the 
book. 

Marion  Harland  has  large  humanity.  Her  creations  are 
thoroughly  human  ;  and  by  knowing  and  loving  ihe  human, 
she  has  no  difficulty  in  threading  her  way  into  human  hearts. 

Mary  Virginia  Terhune  is  a  native  of  the  Old  Dominion, 
whose  name  she  is  still  proud  to  bear.  Although  born  in  the 
country,  the  greater  part  of  her  life  was  passed  at  Richmond. 
Her  father,  a  respected  merchant  of  that  city,  is  a  lineal 
descendant  of  the  Puritans  ;  her  mother  of  the  earliest  settlers 
of  Virginia.  The  families  sacredly  cherish  the  names,  deeds, 
and  homesteads  of  their  ancestors  ;  and  our  author's  hearty  par- 
ticipation in  the  feelings  of  both  the  Northern  and  Southern 
branches,  is  undoubtedly  the  cause  of  her  freedom  from  all 
sectional  prejudices.  Her  liberality  of  sentiment  with  regard 
to  the  vexed  question  of  the  day,  is  one  element  of  her  popular- 
ity as  a  writer. 

At  a  very  early  age,  the  dream  of  the  imaginative  child  was 
authorship  ;  a  hope  that  steadily  grew  into  a  purpose,   winch 

195 


196  WOMEX    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

was  followed  up  with  an  energy  that  never  nagged.  At  the 
age  of  fourteen,  without  confiding  to  any  one  what  she  con- 
sidered a  daring  project,  she  contributed,  under  an  assumed 
name,  a  series  of  papers  to  a  weekly  city  journal.  The  notice 
which  these  sketches  attracted,  the  conjectures  as  to  their 
authorship,  and  the  commendations  bestowed  upon  them  by 
those  whose  opinion  she  valued,  were  precious  encouragement 
to  the  youthful  writer.  From  that  time  her  pen  was  never  idle, 
though  a  large  proportion  of  its  productions  met  no  eye  except 
her  own.  Tales,  essays,  and  poems,  were  sent,  from  time  to 
time,  anonymously,  to  the  different  periodicals  of  the  day,  and, 
stimulated  anew  by  the  approval  of  her  readers,  she  wrote  and 
studied  with  greater  assiduity.  It  is  well  to  mention  this,  as  a 
hint  to  young  and  ardent  aspirants  for  literary  honors,  who  are 
apt  to  attribute  to  natural  gifts  the  vigor  of  expression  and 
grace  of  style,  which  are  only  acquired  by  diligent  practice. 

A  fugitive  sketch,  written  by  our  author  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen, and  entitled,  "  Marrying  Through  Prudential  Motives," 
appeared  a  year  or  two  later  in  "  Godey's  Lady's  Book,"  and 
had  a  somewhat  remarkable  career.  From  the  "  Lady's  Book  " 
it  was  copied  into  an  English  paper,  thence  transferred  to  a 
Parisian  journal,  re-translated  for  another  English  periodical, 
and  finally  copied  in  America,  and  extensively  circulated  as  an 
English  story,  until  claimed  by  Mr.  Godey  as  one  of  his  publi- 
cations. 

In  1854,  assuming  the  name  of  Marion  Harland,  our  author 
sent  out  her  first  published  volume,  whose  success,  without  pro- 
fessional sponsors,  or  the  blast  of  professional  trumpets — sur- 
prised no  one  more  than  herself.  Long  after  the  first  appear- 
ance and  furore  of  "  Alone,"  a  new  American  edition  went  to 
press,  regularly  every  few  weeks,  while  it  was  re-printed  with 
nearly  as  much  eclat  in  England,  translated  into  French,  and 
found  its  way  into  most  of  the  large  cities  of  Europe. 


MARION    HARLAND.  197 

Two  years  later,  "  The  Hidden  Path  "  was  brought  out  by 
Messrs.  Derby  &  Jackson,  with  equal  success,  and  the  addi- 
tional honor  of  a  Leipsic  edition,  being  the  only  work  by  a 
female  writer  in  a  collection  of  "  Standard  American  Authors," 
printed  by  an  enterprising  house  in  that  city.  This  is,  unques- 
tionably, the  most  effective  book  which  Marion  Harland  has  yet 
given  to  the  world.  The  lines  of  character  are  fine  and  true, 
and  evince  a  deepening  insight.  In  Bella  Conway  and  Isabel 
Oakley — noble  women  of  distinct  types — the  shades  of  per- 
sonality are  admirably  disposed  for  contrast.  We  own  to  a 
wicked  enjoyment  of  the  analysis  and  demolition  of  Snowdon. 
It  is  done  deftly  and  thoroughly ;  we  have  no  tender  mercies 
for  the  benignant  face,  oily  tongue,  and  foul  heart  of  the 
Pharisee.  The  story  is,  perhaps,  a  little  overcharged  with 
prominent  personages,  confusing  somewhat  the  lines  of  the 
plot ;  1  mt  that  is  a  fault  of  fullness,  not  of  poverty.  The 
book  appeals  to  the  best  feelings  of  our  humanity,  and  its 
lessons  of  self-sacrifice  and  Christian  faith,  alone,  make  it  more 
than  worthy  of  its  popularity. 

The  following  generous  notice  of  this  work,  from  the  pen  of 
one  *  who  judges  with  the  head  as  well  as  the  heart,  discerns, 
in  a  small  space,  its  best  elements : 

"Let  this  noble  production  (we  use  the  adjective  in  its  fullest  sense)  lie 
upon  the  table,  enliven  the  hearth,  be  the  household  companion  of  every 
true-hearted  Virginian.  Foster  this  gifted  daughter  of  the  South  with  the 
expanding  sunshine  of  appreciation,  the  refreshing  dews  of  praise — stimulate 
undeveloped  genius,  which  has  never  yet  'penned  its  inspiration,' to  walk 
in  her  steps,  emulate  her  achievements,  and  share  her  honors — let  Virginia 
produce  a  few  more  such  writers,  and  the  cry  that  the  South  has  no  literature 
of  its  own  is  silenced  forever !  The  '  Hidden  Path '  is  a  work  that  North 
or  South,  East  or  West,  may  point  to  with  the  finger  of  honest  pride,  and 
say,  '  our  daughter '  sends  this  message  to  the  world — pours  this  balm  into 

*  Anna  Cora  Ritchie. 


198  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

wounded   hearts — traces    for    wavering,  erring   feet,   this  '  Hidden   Path," 
which  leads  to  the  great  goal  of  eternal  peace." 

In  1856,  Marion  Harland  married  the  Kev.  E.  P.  Terhune, 
then  the  pastor  of  a  Virginia  church.  But  amid  the  duties 
of  her  new  sphere,  the  pen  was  not  neglected. 

In  1857,  her  publishers  brought  out  "  Moss  Side  "  her  third 
work.  Although  it  appeared  upon  the  very  eve  of  the  great 
commercial  panic  that  for  a  time  paralyzed  trade  of  every 
description,  its  success  was  as  marked  as  that  of  its  predeces- 
sors. 

As  a  magazine  writer,  Marion  Harland's  services  have  been 
solicited  with  eagerness  and  persistency.  Her  contributions  to 
"Godey's  Lady's  Book" — the  only  periodical  for  which  she 
has  written  regularly — would  fill  a  volume  nearly  as  large  as 
any  of  her  continuous  tales. 

In  1859,  her  husband  was  called  to  the  pastorate  of  the 
First  Keformed  Dutch  Church  in  Newark,  New  Jersey,  and 
removed  with  his  family  to  that  place.  Among  the  people 
of  his  new  charge,  the  Southern  wife  found  a  welcome  so 
warm,  and  hearts  so  congenial,  as  hardly  to  permit  a  sigh 
for  the  birth-place  and  tried  friends  she  had  left  behind. 

Another  book  from  her  busy  pen  is  in  preparation,  and 
will  probably  appear  in  the  autumn  of  the  present  year. 

"We  have  seen  but  few  specimens  of  the  poetry  of  this 
writer,  but  remember  among  them  two  or  three  that  have  in 
them  the  ring  of  true  metal. 

It  is  said  that  a  more  complete  refutation  of  the  slanders 
generally  heaped  upon  "  literary  domesticity  "  can  scarcely  be 
imagined,  than  that  afforded  by  the  happy  home  of  our  author. 
United  to  a  man  of  ripe  scholarship,  sound  judgment,  and  tastes 
and  sympathies  kindred  with  her  own,  she  invariably  appeals  to 
him  in  all  important  matters.  His  is  the  first  reading  and  only 
revision  of  her  MSS.,  before  they  are  given  into  the  hands  of 


MARION    HARLAND.  199 

the  printer.  ~No  less  blessed  as  the  mother  of  two  interesting 
children,  her  lines  of  life  seem  to  have  fallen  in  sunniest  places. 
If  it  be  true  that  the  nightingale  sings  sweetest  with  the  thorn 
in  her  breast,  and  our  divinest  utterances  are  born  of  sorrows, 
Marion  Harland  may  not  yet  have  sounded  the  depths  of  her 
capacity. 

CAMP-MEETING  SCENE. 

"  Behold  Rocky  Mount!"  said  Arthur,  pointing  to  a  rising  ground,  tufted 
by  a  clump  of  oaks. 

"Where  is  the  church?"  inquired  Ida.  "lean  distinguish  people  and 
horses,  but  no  house." 

"  After  we  get  there,  I  will  lend  you  my  pocket  microscope,"  responded 
Charley.  The  brown  walls  of  a  small  building,  in  the  centre  of  the  grove, 
were  visible,  as  the  road  wound  around  the  hill ;  but  its  dimensions  were 
as  great  a  puzzle  as  its  absence  would  have  been.     Carry  came  to  her  aid. 

"  They  preach  out  of  doors,  my  dear."' 

"  Out  of  doors!"  this  was  a  charming  novelty. 

"  'The  groves  were  God's  first  temples,'  "  she  repeated  softly,  and  Lynn 
continued  the  noble  lines — 

"  Ah,  why 
Should  we,  iu  the  woi'ld's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore. 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ? " 

Charley  smiled  dubiously,  but  held  his  peace.  The  crowd  thickened  with 
their  advance.  Horses  were  tethered  in  solid  ranks  to  the  trees ;  children 
straying  frightfully  near  to  their  heels ;  wagons  and  carriages  almost  piled 
upon  each  other  ;  and  men,  white  and  black,  stood  about  everywhere.  The 
driver  reined  up,  twenty  yards  from  the  arbor  erected  under  the  trees. 

"  Drive  np  nearer,  Tom  !"  said  Carry. 

"  He  cannot,"  replied  Arthur,  letting  down  the  steps.     "  Look!" 

There  was  a  quadruple  row  of  vehicles  on  three  sides  of  the  arbor,  the 
fourth  being,  at  considerable  pains,  left  open  for  passage.     Several  young 


200  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

men  dashed  to  the  side  of  the  carriage,  with  as  much  empresscment  as  at  a 
ball,  and  thus  numerously  attended,  the  girls  picked  their  way  through  the 
throng  and  dust.  No  gentlemen  were,  as  yet,  in  their  seats,  and  our  party 
secured  a  vacant  bench  midway  to  the  pulpit. 

"  Don't  sit  next  to  the  aisle,"  whispered  Arthur. 

"  Why  not?"  questioned  Ida,  removing  to  the  other  extremity  of  the  plank. 

"  Oh !  it  is  more  comfortable  here.  We  will  be  with  you  again  pre- 
sently." 

"  That  is  not  all  the  reason,"  remarked  Carry,  when  he  was  gone.  "  Tins 
railing  protects  us  from  the  press  on  this  side ;  and  our  young  gentleman 
will  not  permit  any  one  to  occupy  the  stand  without,  but  themselves." 

"  Will  they  not  sit  down?" 

"  No,  indeed !  there  will  not  be  room.  Then  the  aisles  will  be  rilled  with 
all  sorts  of  people,  and  our  dresses  be  liable  to  damage  from  boots  and 
tobacco  juice." 

"  Tobacco  juice!"  was  she  in  a  barbarous  country  !  As  Carry  predicted, 
their  three  attendants  worked  their  way,  between  the  wheels  and  the  people, 
to  where  they  sat.  Charley  crawled  under  the  rail,  and  planted  himself 
behind  them. 

"  I  can  keep  my  position  until  some  pretty  girl  dislodges  me,"  said  be. 
"  The  denizens  of  these  parts  have  not  forgotten  how  to  stare." 

He  might  well  say  so.  A  battery  of  eyes  was  levelled  upon  them,  wher- 
ever they  looked.  The  tasteful  dress  and  elegant  appearance  ot  the  ladies, 
and  their  attractive  suite,  were  subjects  ot  special  importance  to  the  com- 
munity at  large.  Although  eclipsed  in  show  by  some  present,  theirs  was  a 
new  constellation,  and  they  must  support  observation  as  they  could.  They 
stood  fire  bravely ;  Ida  was  most  accustomed  to  it,  and  she  found  so  much 
to  interest  and  divert  her,  that  she  became  unconscious  of  the  annoyance 
after  a  little. 

"  Are  those  seats  reserved  for  distinguished  strangers  ?  have  we  not  a 
right  to  them?"  designating  a  tier  in  front  of  the  speaker's  stand. 

"  They  are  the  anxious  benches,"  returned  Charley. 

"Nonsense !" 

"  So  I  think.  The  brethren  dissent  from  us.  I  am  not  quizzing.  That 
is  the  name." 

"The  mourners — the  convicted  occupy  them,"  said  Carry. 

"  Are  they  here  ?"  inquired  Ida,  credulously.  It  was  preposterous  to  con- 
ceive such  a  possibility  in  this  frivolous,  loud-talking  assembly. 


MARION    HARLAND.  201 

"  Not  now  ;"  answered  Charley.  "  But  when  they  crowd  on  the  steam, 
you  will  witness  scores." 

"  Fie,  Charley!  it  is  wicked  to  speak  so!" 

"  I  am  just  as  pious  as  if  I  did  not,  Carry.  I'll  wager  my  horse — and 
head  too — that  by  to-night,  Miss  Ida  will  agree  with  me,  that  these  religious 
frolics  are  more  hurtful  to  the  cause  they  are  intended  to  advance,  than  fifty 
such  harmless  affairs,  as  we  attended  on  Thursday  night." 

"  I  am  not  solemnized  yet,"  said  Ida. 

"  You  are  as  solemn  as  you  are  going  to  be.  You  may  be  excited,  or 
frightened  into  something  like  gravity.  Two,  three,  four  preachers  !  That's 
what  I  call  a  waste  of  the  raw  material.  What  a  flutter  of  ribbons  and  fans ! 
The  congregation  reminds  me  of  a  clover  field,  with  the  butterflies  hovering 
over  its  gaily-colored,  bobbing  heads.  Handsome  ladies  by  dozens !  This 
county  is  famed  for  its  beauty,  and  but  one  tolerable-looking  man  in  its 
length  and  breadth!" 

"  Why,  there  is  Mr.  Euston — what  fault  have  you  to  find  in  him  ?" 

"lie  is  the  honorable  exception.  Whom  did  you  think  I  meant?"  smil- 
ing mischievously  at  Carry's  unguarded  query.  "Art,  here,  is  passable 
Modesty  prevents  my  saying  more,  as  we  are  daily  mistaken  for  each  other. 
The  music  strikes  up  ; — rather  quavering ;  they  are  not  in  the  '  spirit '  yet. 
They  never  get  to  the  'understanding.'  I  must  decamp.  Those  fair  ones 
are  too  bashful  to  look  this  way,  while  I  am  here." 

He  was  on  the  outside  of  the  rail,  sedate  and  deacon-like,  in  a  minute. 
Unsuitcd  as  his  remarks  were  to  the  time  and  place,  they  were  less  objec- 
tionable than  the  whispers  of  the  ladies  who  dispossessed  him; — critiques 
upon  Susan's  beaux  and  Joseph's  sweethearts ;  upon  faces,  dress  and  deport- 
ment ;  a  quantity  of  reprobation,  and  very  sparse  praises. 

The  preacher  was  an  unremarkable  man,  who  delivered,  in  a  sing-song 
tone,  an  unremarkable  discourse ;  opposing  no  impediment  to  the  sociability 
of  the  aforementioned  damsels,  except  that  they  lowered  their  shrill  staccato 
to  a  piano.  The  gentlemen  whispered  behind  their  hats,  notched  switches, 
and  whittled  sticks.  The  hearers  from  Poplar-grove,  albeit  they  were  gay, 
youthful,  and  non-professors,  were  the  most  decorous  auditors  in  their  part 
of  the  congregation.  Another  minister  arose  ;  a  man  not  yet  in  his  thirtieth 
year,  his  form  stooped,  as  beneath  the  weight  of  sixty  winters.  The  crowd 
stilled  instantly.  He  leaned,  as  for  support,  upon  the  primitive  desk  ;  his 
attenuated  hands  clasped,  his  eyes  moving  slowly  in  their  cavernous  recesses 
over  the  vast  assemblage.     "And  what  come  ye  out  into  the  wilderness  for 


202  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

to  see  ?"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  preternatural  sweetness  and  strength.  "  Aye ! 
ye  are  come  as  to  a  holiday  pageant,  bedecked  in  tinsel  and  costly  raiment.  I 
see  before  me  the  pride  of  beauty  and  youth ;  the  middle-aged,  in  the  strength 
of  manliness  and  honor,  the  hoary  hairs  and  decrepit  limbs  of  age;— all 
trampling— hustling  each  other  in  your  haste— in  one  beaten  road— the  way 
to  death  and  judgment !  Oh !  fools  and  blind !  slow-worms,  battening  upon 
the  damps  and  filth  of  this  vile  earth !  hugging  your  muck  rakes  while  the 
glorious  One  proffers  you  the  crown  of  Life !"  The  bent  figure  straightened ; 
the  thin  hands  were  endowed  with  a  language  of  power,  as  they  pointed,  and 
shook,  and  glanced  through  the  air.  His  clarion  tones  thrilled  upon  every 
ear,  their  alarms  and  threatenings  and  denunciations ;  in  crashing  peals,  the 
awful  names  of  the  Most  High,  and  His  condemnations  of  the  wicked, 
descended  among  the  throng ;  and  those  fearful  eyes  were  fiery  and  wrath- 
ful. At  the  climax  he  stopped;  with  arms  still  upraised,  and  the  words 
of  woe  and  doom  yet  upon  his  lips,  lie  sank  upon  the  arm  of  a  brother 
beside  him,  and  was  led  to  his  seat,  ghastly  as  a  corpse,  and  nearly  as  help- 
less. 

A  female  voice  began  a  hymn. 

"  This  is  the  field,  the  world  below, — 
Where  wheat  and  tares  together  grow ; 
Jesus,  ere  long,  will  weed  the  crop, 
And  pluck  the  tares  in  anger  up." 

The  hills,  for  miles  around,  reverberated  the  bursting  chorus, 

"  For  soon  the  reaping  time  will  come, 
And  angels  shout  the  harvest  home !" 

The  ministers  came  down  from  the  stand,  and  distributed  themselves 
among  the  people ,  bowed  heads  and  shaking  forms  marking  their  path  ;  a 
woman  from  the  most  remote  quarter  of  the  throng,  rushed  up  to  the 
mourner's  seats,  and  flung  herself  upon  her  knees  with  a  piercing  cry; 
another  and  another ;  some  weeping  aloud ;  some  in  tearless  distress ;  num- 
bers knelt  where  they  had  sat ;  and  louder  and  louder,  like  the  final  trump, 
and  the  shout  of  the  resurrection  morn,  arose  the  surge  of  song— 

"  For  soon  the  reaping-time  will  come, 
And  angels  shout  the  harvest  home  !" 


MARION    HARLAND.  203 

Carry  trembled  and  shrank  ;  and  Ida's  firmer  nerves  were  quivering.  A 
lull  in  the  storm,  and  a  man  knelt  in  the  aisle,  to  implore  "mercy  and  pardon 
for  a  dying  sinner,  who  would  not  try  to  avert  the  wrath  to  come." 

Sonorous  accents  went  on  with  his  weeping  petition ;  praying  for  "  the 
hardened,  thoughtless  transgressors — those  who  had  neither  part  nor  lot  in 
this  matter ;  who  stood  afar  off,  despising  and  reckless."  Again  rolled  out  a 
chorus ;  speaking  now  of  joyful  assurance — 

"  Jesus  my  all  to  heaven  has  gone — 

(When  we  get  to  heaven  we  will  part  no  more,) 
He  whom  I  fix  my  hopes  upon — 

When  we  get  to  heaven  we  will  part  no  more. 
Oh!  Fare-you-well!  oh!  fare-you-well ! 

When  we  get  to  heaven  we  will  part  no  more, 
Oh!   Fare-you-well!" 

Ida's  eyes  brimmed,  and  Carry  sobbed  with  over-wrought  feeling. 
Arthur  bent  over  the  railing  and  spoke  to  the  latter.  He  looked  troubled, 
but  for  her  :  Lynn  stood  against  one  of  the  pillars  which  supported  the  roof; 
arms  crossed,  and  a  redder  mantling  of  his  dark  cheek ;  Charley  was  cool 
and  grave,  taking  in  the  scene  in  all  its  parts,  with  no  sympathy  with  any 
of  the  phases  of  emotion.  The  tumult  increased ;  shouted  thanksgivings. 
and  wails  of  despair ;  singing  and  praying  and  exhorting,  clashing  in  wild 
confusion. 

"  You  had  best  not  stay  here,"  said  Arthur  to  Carry,  whose  struggles  for 
composure  he  could  not  bear  to  see. 

"  Suffer  me  to  pass.  Dr.  Dana;"  and  a  venerable  minister  stooped  toward 
the  weeping  girl.  "  My  daughter,  why  do  you  remain  here,  so  far  from 
those  who  can  do  you  good  ?  You  are  distressed  on  account  of  sin  ;  are  you 
ashamed  to  have  it  known?  Do  you  not  desire  the  prayer  of  Christians?  I 
will  not  affirm  that  you  cannot  be  saved  anywhere  ;  '  the  arm  of  the  Lord  is 
not  shortened,'  but  I  do  warn  you,  that  if  you  hang  back  in  pride  or  stub- 
bornness, you  will  be  lost ;  and  these  only  can  detain  you  after  what  you 
have  heard.  Arise,  and  join  that  company  of  weeping  mourners ;  it  may 
not  be  too  late." 

(any  shook  her  head. 

"Then  kneel  where  you  are,  and  I  will  pray  for  you.' 

She  dried  her  tears. 


204  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  Why  should  I  kneel,  Mr.  Manly  ?  I  do  not  experience  any  sorrow  for 
sin." 

"My  child!" 

"  My  tears  are  not  those  of  penitence ;  I  do  not  weep  for  my  sinfulness  ; 
I  can  neither  think  nor  feel  in  this  confusion." 

The  good  man  was  fairly  stumhled  by  this  avowal. 

"  Have  you  no  interest  in  this  subject  ?" 

"  Not  more  than  usual,  sir.  My  agitation  proceeded  from  animal  excite- 
ment." 

"  I  am  fearful  it  is  the  same  in  a  majority  of  instances,  Mr.  Manly,"  said 
Arthur,  respectfully. 

"  You  may  perceive  your  error  one  day,  my  son  ;  let  me  entreat  you  to 
consider  this  matter  as  binding  upon  your  eternal  welfare,  and  caution  you  not 
to  lay  a  feather  in  the  way  of  those  who  may  be  seeking  their  salvation." 

Arthur  bowed  silently ;  and  the  minister  passed  on. 

Dr.  Carlton  retired  early  that  evening,  with  a  headache.  Mrs.  Dana  was 
getting  the  children  to  sleep  ;  the  young  people  had  the  parlor  to  themselves. 
Charley  was  at  the  piano,  fingering  over  sacred  airs ;  psalm  tunes,  sung  by 
the  Covenanters,  in  their  craggy  temples,  or  murmuring  to  an  impromptu 
accompaniment,  a  chant  or  doxology.  All  at  once  he  struck  the  chords 
boldly,  and  added  the  full  powers  of  the  instrument  to  his  voice,  in  the  fine 
old  melody  of  "  Brattle  Street."  Lynn  ceased  his  walk  through  the  room, 
and  united  his  rich  bass  at  the  second  line  ;  Arthur,  a  tenor ;  Carry  and  Ida 
were  happy  to  be  permitted  to  listen. 

"There!"  said  Charley,  "there  is  more  religion  in  that  hymn  than 
in  all  the  fustian  we  have  heard  to-day ;  sermons,  prayers,  and  exhor- 
tations. Humbug  in  worldly  concerns  is  despicable ;  in  the  church  it  is 
unbearable." 

"  Consider,  Charley,  that  hundreds  of  pious  people  believe  in  the  prac- 
tices you  condemn.  Some  of  the  best  Christians  I  know  were  converted  at 
these  noisy  revivals,"  said  Carry. 

"  It  would  be  miraculous  if  there  were  not  a  grain  or  two  of  wheat  in 
this  pile  of  chaff.  I  never  attend  one  that  I  am  not  the  worse  for  it.  It  is  a 
regular  annealing  furnace  ;  when  the  heat  subsides  you  can  neither  soften  nor 
bend  the  heart  again — the  iron  is  steel.     What  does  Miss  Ida  say?" 

"  That  sin  is  no  more  hateful,  or  religion  more  alluring,  for  this  Sabbath's 
lessons ;  still  I  acquiesce  in  Carry's  belief,  that  although  mistaken  in  their 
zeal,  these  seeming  fanatics  are  sincere." 


MARION    HARLAN  D.  205 

"You  applaud  enthusiasm  upon  other  subjects,  why  not  in  religion?" 
asked  Lynn;  "if  anything,  it  is  everything.  It"  I  could  believe  that,  when 
the  stormy  sea  of  life  is  passed,  heaven — an  eternal  noon-tide  of  love  and 
blessedness  would  be  mine — a  lifetime  would  be  too  short,  mortal  language 
too  feeble  to  express  my  transport.  There  is  a  void  in  the  soul  which  naught 
but  this  can  satisfy.  Life  is  fresh  to  us  now ;  but  from  the  time  of  Solomon 
to  the  present,  the  worldling  has  nauseated  at  the  polluted  spring,  saying 
Tor  all  his  days  are  sorrow,  and  his  travail  grief;  yea,  his  heart  taketh  not 
rest  in  the  night.'  I  envy,  not  carp  at  the  joys  of  those  whose  faith,  pierc- 
ing through  the  fogs  of  this  lower  earth,  reads  the  sure  promise — '  It  is  your 
Father's  good  pleasure  to  give  you  the  kingdom.'  " 

"  You  do  homage  to  the  beauty  of  the  Faith,  by  whomsoever  professed. 
I  note  its  practical  effects;  judge  of  its  genuineness  by  its  workings.  For 
example,  the  Old  Harry  awoke  mightily  within  me,  in  intermissions,  to  see 
Dick  Rogers  preaching  to  Carry,  threatening  her  with  perdition — she,  who 
never  in  her  life  committed  a  tenth  of  the  sin  he  is  guilty  of  every  day. 
He  has  been  drunk  three  times  in  the  last  month  ;  he  is  a  walking  demijohn ; 
his  hypocrisy  a  shame  to  his  grey  hairs.  And  James  Mather — he  would  sell 
his  soul  for  a  fourpence,  and  call  it  clear  gain.  Sooner  than  lose  a  crop,  he 
forces  his  negroes  to  work  on  Sunday — can't  trust  the  God  of  harvest,  even 
upon  His  own  day.  The  poor  hands  are  driven  on  week-days  as  no  decent 
man  would  do  a  mule  ;  he  let  his  widowed  sister  go  to  the  poorhouse,  and 
offered  to  lend  John  five  thousand  dollars,  the  next  week,  at  eight  per  cent. 
I  have  known  him  ever  since  I  was  a  shaver,  and  never  had  a  word  from 
him  upon  the  'one  thing  needful,'  except  at  church.  And  he  was  in  the 
altar,  this  morning,  shouting  as  though  the  Lord  were  deaf!" 

"Charley!  Charley!" 

"  Facts  are  obstinate  things,  Carry.  Next  to  being  hypocritical  our- 
selves, is  winking  at  it  in  others.  The  church  keeps  these  men  in  her  bosom ; 
she  must  not  complain,  if  she  shares  in  the  odium  they  merit.  They  are 
emphatically  sounding  brass." 

"  Let  them  grow  together  until  the  harvest,"  said  Arthur.  "It  is  a  con- 
vincing proof  of  the  truth  of  Religion,  that  there  are  careful  counterfeits.'' 

••  I  do  not  impeach  the  'truth  of  religion.'  You  need  not  speak  so 
reproachfully,  Arthur.  I  believe  in  the  Christianity  of  the  Scriptures, 
What  I  assail,  is  intermittent  piety;  springs,  whose  channels  are  dusty,  save 
at  particular  seasons;  ramp-meetings  and  the  like;  men,  who  furbish  up 
their  religion,  along  with  their  go-to-meeting  boots,  and  wear  it  no  longer. 


206  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Their  brethren  despise  them  as  I  do ;  but  their  mouths  are  shut,  lest  they 
'  bring  disgrace  upon  their  profession.'  It  can  have  no  fouler  disgrace  than 
their  lives  afford.  I  speak  what  others  conceal ;  when  one  of  these  whited 
sepulchres  lifts  his  Bible  to  break  my  head,  for  a  graceless  reprobate,  I  pelt 
him  with  pebbles  from  the  clear  brook.  Look  at  old  Thistleton  !  a  mongrel, 
porcupine  and  bull-dog,  pricking  and  snarling  from  morning  till  night.  A 
Christian  is  a  gentleman;  he  is  a  surly  growler.  Half  of  the  church  hate, 
the  other  half  dread  him ;  yet  he  sits  on  Sabbaths,  in  the  high  places  of  the 
synagogues,  leads  prayer-meetings,  and  weeps  over  sinners — sanctified 
'brother  Thistleton!1  He  thunders  the  law  at  me;  and  I  knock  him  down 
with  a  stout  stick,  St.  John  cuts  ready  to  my  hand  ;  '  If  a  man  say,  I  love 
God,  and  hate  his  brother,  he  is  a  liar  P  I  hush  up  Eogers,  with — 'No 
drunkard  shall  inherit  the  kingdom;'  and  Mather,  with,  'You  cannot  serve 
God  and  Mammon.'  They  say  I  am  a  scoffer ;  I  don't  care.  Now,"  con- 
tinued this  contrary  being,  passing  into  a  tone  of  reverent  feeling,  "  there  is 
my  kind  guardian.  1  don't  believe  he  ever  shouted,  or  made  a  public 
address  in  his  life.  He  Ikes  his  religion ;  a  child  can  perceive  that  the  Bible 
is  a  'lamp  to  his  feet;'  a  pillar  of  cloud  in  prosperity ;  a  sun  in  adversity.  I 
saw  it  when  a  boy,  and  it  did  me  more  good  than  the  preached  sermons  I 
have  listened  to  since.  He  called  me  into  his  study  the  night  before  I  left 
home,  and  gave  me  a  copy  of  '  the  Book.'  'Charley,  my  son,'  said  he,  'you 
are  venturing  upon  untried  seas;  here  is  the  Chart,  to  which  I  have  trusted 
for  twenty  years  ;  and  have  never  been  led  by  it  upon  a  quicksand.  Look 
to  it,  my  boy!'  I  have  read  it,  more  because  he  asked  it,  than  for  its 
intrinsic  value  ;  that  is  my  failing,  not  his.  I  have  waded  through  sloughs 
of  theories  and  objections,  but  hold  to  it  still.  Especially  when  I  am  here, 
and  kneel  in  my  old  place  at  the  family  altar,  hear  the  solemn  tones  that 
quieted  my  boyish  gaiety ;  when  I  witness  his  irreproachable,  useful  life, 
I  say,  'His  chart  is  true ;  would  I  were  guided  by  it!'  No — no — Art.!  I 
may  be  careless  and  sinful ;  I  am  no  skeptic/' 

"A  skeptic!"  exclaimed  Lynn.  "There  never  was  one  !  Voltaire  was 
a  fiend  incarnate  ;  a  devil,  who  'believed  and  trembled,"  in  spite  of  his  hardi- 
hood ;  Paine,  a  brute,  who,  inconvenienced  by  a  soul,  would  not  sink  as  low 
as  his  passions  commanded,  tried  to  show  that  he  had  none,  as  the  easiest 
method  of  disembarrassing  himself.  That  one  of  God's  creatures,  who  can 
look  up  to  the  glories  of  a  night  like  this,  or  see  the  sun  rise  to-morrow 
morning,  and  peep,  in  his  insect  voice,  a  denial  of  Him  who  made  the  world, 
is  demon  or  beast ;  often  both.     '  Call  no  man  happy  till  he  dies.'     Atheists 


MARION    HARLAND.  207 

have  gone  to  the  stake  for  their  opinions ;  but  physical  courage  or  the  heat 
of  fanaticism,  not  the  belief,  sustained  them.  We  have  yet  to  hear  of  the 
infidel,  who  died  in  his  bed, 

'  As  one  she  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams.'" 

"  It  is  a  mystery  that  one  can  die  tranquilly,"  said  Carry. 
"  I  have  stood  by  many  peaceful  death-beds,"  returned  Arthur.  "  I 
never  wish  so  ardently  for  an  interest  in  the  Redemption,  as  when  I  watch 
the  departure  of  a  saint.  One  verse  is  in  my  mind  for  days  afterward.  I 
repeat  it  aloud  as  I  ride  alone ;  and  it  lingers  in  my  last  waking  thought  at 
night : 

'  Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 

Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are  ; 
While  on  his  breast,  I  lean  my  head, 

And  breathe  my  life  out  sweetly  there.'  " 

"  And  why  do  you  not  encourage  these  feelings  ?"  asked  Charley,  bluntly. 
"  I  call  that  conviction  ;  a  different  thing  from  the  burly  of  this  morning. 
You  want  to  he  a  Christian  ;  so  do  I  sometimes  ;  but  you  are  a  more  hopeful 
subject." 

"  I  am  by  no  means  certain  of  that.  You  would  never  abide  with  the 
half-decided,  so  long  as  I  have  done.  You  are  one  of  the  '  violent,' who 
would  take  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  by  force." 

"How  strange!"  said  Charley,  thoughtfully. 

"  What  is  strange  ?"  inquired  his  brother. 

"  Here  are  five  of  us,  as  well-assured  of  the  verity  of  Christianity,  and 
God's  revealed  Word,  as  of  our  own  existence ;  the  ladies,  practising  every 
Christian  virtue  ;  Lynn,  prepared  to  break  a  lance  with  infidelity  in  any 
shape ;  you,  like  Agrippa,  almost  persuaded ;  and  I,  stripping  off  the  bor- 
rowed plumage  of  those  who  have  a  name  to  live ;  yet  we  will  be  content  to 
close  our  eyes  in  sleep,  uncertain  of  reopening  them  in  life  ;  unfit  for  Death 
and  Eternity!" 

He  turned  again  to  the  piano ;  Arthur  quitted  the  room  ;  Lynn  gazed 
out  of  the  window,  with  working  features ;  Carry  shaded  her  eyes  with  her 
hand;  Ida  felt  a  cold  awe  creeping  over  her.  '  Death  and  Eternity !' had 
she  heard  the  words  before?  how  out  of  place  in  the  bright,  warm  life  they 
were  leading !     nere  were  true  friendships,  tried  and  strengthened  by  years ; 


208  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH 

young  love,  joying  in  his  flowery  course  ;  refined  and  congenial  spirits ;  the 
luxuries  of  wealth  and  taste ;  how  unwelcome  the  hand  that  lifted  the  drapery 
which  enveloped  the  skeleton!  '  Death  and  Eternity  !'  The  spell  was  upon 
the  scented  air ;  the  moon  threw  shadows  upon  the  grass,  as  ot  newly  heaped 
graves ;  and  the  vibrating  chords  spoke  but  of  the  awful  theme ! 

MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN. 

She  was  writing  on  this  afternoon.  The  window  overlooked  the  ocean 
— purpled  and  gilded  in  long,  slow-moving  lines  by  the  sunset,  and  dotted 
with  white  sails.  The  wind  had  breathed  sluggishly  ali  day,  but  as  the 
"  glowing  axle  "  touched  the  water,  a  sudden  breeze  shivered  the  broad 
beams  drifting  upon  the  ridges  of  the  waves,  into  bright-hued  pencils,  and 
sent  the  idle  craft  rocking  through  the  brilliant  confusion. 

Isabel  closed  the  desk.  Her  smiles,  so  frequent  when  there  were  those 
by  who  prized  their  light,  never  visited  eye  or  lip  in  solitude.  She  hail 
written  earnestly — thought  and  feeling  succeeding  each  other  upon  her  coun- 
tenance; but  the  sportive  grace  with  winch  she  had  worn  her  priestess' 
mantle,  was  no  more.  Wrapping  it  carefully  over  her  heart,  she  wrought 
diligently — not  joyfully.  She  maintained  a  stern  guard  over  herself,  lest  one 
drop  of  the  wormwood  of  her  cup  should  ooze  into  those  she  brimmed  and 
wreathed  with  garlands  for  others.  She  was  not  a  sinless  creation,  imper- 
vious to  personal  woes.  The  mortal  rebelled  at  the  blight  of  its  best  hopes ; 
the  woman  wept  over  the  sadly-vacant  pedestal  in  her  heart  of  hearts.  Wo 
have  seen  in  a  nature  as  noble  as  Bella's,  one  love  destroy  every  trace  of  a 
former;  and  this,  by  a  merciful  provision  of  Providence,  is  a  general  law  of 
foiled  or  mistaken  affections;  but  Isabella  could  not  look  forward  to  a  similar 
consolation.  Her  attachment  to  Frank  Lyle  had  incorporated  itself  with  her 
character  and  being — a  love  as  innocent  and  beautiful  as  an  angel's ;  not  con- 
cealed— because  she  saw  not  shame,  but  honor  in  it.  She  had  never  said — 
"  The  end — what  shall  it  be  ?"  As  they  had  always  loved  one  another  more 
than  all  the  world  beside,  they  must  continue  the  same  through  time  and  in 
eternity.  A  less  refined  or  more  prudent  woman  would  have  analyzed  this 
feeling,  and  extirpated  it  before  it  had  grown  beyond  her  control — Isabel  had 
rested,  without  question  or  fear,  in  the  conviction  that  she  was  as  dear  to 
him  as  he  was  to  her.  She  knew  him  for  her  soul-mate  ;  the  man's  duller 
instinct  erred.  Upon  her  had  come  the  penalty  of  his  mistake,  and  she  bore 
it  in  silent  fortitude.     She  did  not  delude  herself  with  false  philosophy — 


MARIOX    HARLAXD.  209 

unfounded  hopes.  She  knew  that  at  the  close  of  life — come  when  it  might 
— the  deserted  chamber  of  to-day  would  be  as  empty  as  now;  that  upon  the 
walls,  the  frescoes  his  haud  had  painted,  would  glow  as  freshly — yet  the 
world  was  not  a  desert.  Looking  to  God  for  "strength  to  live,"  she  threw 
herself,  heart  and  mind,  into  the  work  of  increasing  the  happiness  and  allevi- 
ating the  woes  of  her  kind.  Her  gift  remained — spurned  no  longer  that  it 
had  been  fatal  to  her  most  cherished  joys,  but  valued  and  cultivated  as  her 
comforter.  Her  writings  gave  no  evidence  of  her  changed  life.  She  sang 
still — "  There  is  hope,  and  peace,  and  blessedness  in  store  for  you  " — and 
muffled  the  plaintive  echo,  wailed  up  from  the  deep  recesses  of  the  woman's 
heart — "  but  not  for  me!"  She  had  no  cause  to  waver  in  her  trust  in  the 
truth  and  goodness  of  her  brethren ;  and  every  page  and  line  inculcated  the 
enlarged  charity,  learned  while  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Him,  "  who  spake  as 
never  man  spake  ;"  and  oh!  lesson  fraught  with  reproof  to  thee,  murmuring 
misanthrope !  who  suffered  as  never  man  suffered. 

The  world  cried,  "Happy  and  fortunate!"  the  hypercritics  and  jealots 
composing  the  minority,  "  only  hoped  her  prosperity  might  endure."  Even 
the  sharp-sighted  and  knowing  ones,  who  make  an  author's  published  works 
the  data  from  which  they  compute  the  trials  and  events  of  his  personal  his- 
tory— who  will  have  it,  that  this  actual  and  private  experience  is  the  inkhorn 
which  feeds  the  morbid  curiosity  of  their  narrow,  credulous  minds;  who  find 
no  warrant  within  themselves  for  believing  that  one  can  estimate  the  depth 
and  fullness  of  human  love,  by  sounding  the  yet  untroubled  pool  of  his  own 
capacity  for  affection — that  a  nicely-strung  and  sympathetic  instrument  may 
yield  up  strains  of  melting  woe,  if  the  sigh  of  another's  sorrow  is  wafted 
across  its  chords — even  they — the  spiders  among  readers — surmised  erro- 
neously respecting  the  minstrel,  upon  whoso  harp-strings  neither  dust  nor 
rust  ever  accumulated.  They  were  as  ignorant  as  the  printer,  who  grumbled 
at  a  blur  in  the  middle  of  a  racy  paragraph.  What  was  it  to  him  that  a  tear 
had  fallen  there  ? 

The  eagle  was  the  eagle  yet,  although  her  wing  might  flag  wearily  ere 
the  eyrie  was  gained.  Such  a  season  was  the  present.  The  blended  beauties 
of  sky  and  ocean  saddened,  instead  of  diverting  her  thoughts.  Year  after 
year,  Frank  had  viewed  the  scene  with  her ;  this  summer  his  place  was  else- 
where. She  imagined  them  both — himself  and  Alma — she,  indescribably 
lovely  in  her  childish  glee  at  having  him  near  her,  hanging  on  his  arm 
gazing  into  eyes,  full  and  radiant  with  the  most  ardent  love  of  his  soul- 
love  she  could  only  measure   by  hers,  which  was   bestowed   upon   every 

14 


210  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

petitioner,  and  in  nearly  equal  bounties.  And  swift  uprose  the  foe  most 
inimical  to  man's  contentment — the  phantom  that  oftenest  drives  the  haunted 
one  to  madness — "Might-have-been!" 

NEMESIS. 

The  first  scene  was  that  over  which  the  jesting  criticism  had  begun  ;  a 
chamber  in  the  Castle  of  Lindenburg,  the  nun's  portrait  hanging  against  the 
rear  wall.  A  man,  habited  like  an  old  retainer  of  the  castle,  entered  from 
the  side.  He  had  not  crossed  to  the  front  of  the  platform,  when  a  fiery  flake 
from  above  fell  upon  his  head — another  and  another!  and  a  second  actor,  the 
"  Raymond  "  of  the  dumb)  show,  rushed  forward  and  tossed  his  arms  in  fren- 
zied gesticulation  toward  the  spectators.  Simultaneously  with  his  appear- 
ance, was  heard  from  behind  the  curtain,  the  startling  cry  of  "  Fire!" 

The  crowd  arose  as  one  man,  and  theTe  was  a  movement  in  the  direction 
of  the  doors. 

"False  alarm!  There  is  no  danger!"  shouted  a  strong  voice  above  the 
confusion — and  "  No  danger  !  no  danger!"  was  caught  up  and  repeated  by 
many. 

Katherine  turned  to  the  quarter  from  which  the  first  voice  came,  and 
saw,  across  the  house,  the  speaker,  who  continued  to  vociferate  the  assurance 
of  safety ;  and  at  his  side,  just  opposite  to  herself,  Malcolm  Argyle,  his  eyes 
eagerly  fixed  upon  the  curtain  which  had  fallen  at  the  alarm.  In  another 
second  he  had  precipitated  himself  over  the  low  parapet  of  the  boxes  into 
the  pit,  and,  as  a  brighter  stream  of  light  flashed  through  the  painted  screen, 
the  cry  of  "Fire!"  rang  out  again,  echoed  now  by  groans  and  shrieks,  that 
told  the  mad  fear  which  seized  upon  every  soul  at  the  certainty  of  the 
calamity. 

Malcolm  had  dashed  through  the  crowd  in  the  pit — all  besides  himself 
rushing  to  the  door — and  scaled  a  pillar  into  the  box  where  stood  the 
Rashleighs — terrified,  yet  willing  to  listen  to  reason — while  Mr.  Wickham 
reiterated  that  the  best  chance  of  safety  lay  in  presence  of  mind,  and  a  steady 
yet  hasty  progress  toward  the  lobby. 

"The  pit!"  said  Malcolm,  imperatively.  "Lower  the  ladies,  and  then 
leap  yourselves  into  the  pit!  We  can  reach  the  outer  door  before  the  crowd 
from  the  stairs  blocks  it  up  !     Now  !  -now  /" 

He  laid  hold  of  Katherine's  arm,  and  she  felt,  in  his  iron  grasp,  how 
awful  was  his  sense  of  their  peril. 


MARION     HARLAND.  211 

"  I  think,  sir" — began  Mr.  Wickhain. 

"  It  is  no  time  to  think!  /have  thought!"  said  Malcolm,  vehemently. 
"  Katherine,  will  you  let  me  " 

A  wilder  cry  of  horror,  as  the  forked  tongues  of  flame,  with  lightning 
velocity,  ran  along  the  ceiling,  curled  and  spouted  and  wrapped  themselves 
over  the  light  boards  that  panelled  the  front  of  the  boxes. 

"There  is  but  one  way,  now,"  and  throwing  his  arm  about  Katherine's 
waist,  Malcolm  plunged  into  the  living  current  that  surged  impetuously  into 
the  narrow,  tortuous  stairs  and  lobbies.  Lieutenant  Calvert  caught  up  the 
fainting  form  of  his  betrothed,  and  followed  ;  while  the  two  elderly  gentle- 
men, breast  to  breast,  fought  bravely  to  win  a  path  from  death.  Still,  press- 
ing as  they  thought  the  emergency,  they  miscalculated  the  swiftness  of  the 
triumphant  element.  The  piercing  shrieks  of  the  helpless  creatures,  who 
were  in  the  hindmost  ranks,  testified  that  they  were  already  in  its  scorching 
embrace,  when  the  dazzling,  furious  glare  grew  suddenly  dull,  and  a  cohnnn 
of  pitchy  smoke  rolled  along  the  roof,  filled  the  dome,  and,  extinguishing 
every  light  in  its  downward  swoop — fell  a  black-winged  Death,  upon  the 
struggling  mass  of  human  beings.  Screams  and  moans  were  stifled — stilled ! 
All  that  was  left  of  vital  fire  within  the  inner  walls,  went  out  in  one 
agonized  respiration  as  the  victims  entered  into  the  poisonous  cloud — hot, 
reeking  with  oily  vapors — as  it  were  a  breath  from  Gehenna  itself. 

In  the  lobbies  and  upon  the  staircase,  the  frantic  struggles  for  life  went 
on  in  utter  darkness.  Behind,  the  roaring,  surging  flame — before  them  an 
impenetrable  wall,  and  a  staircase,  piled  high  and  higher  with  the  bodies  of 
living  and  dead!  Over  these  rushed  on  the  trampling,  wrestling  crowd. 
Strong  men  climbed  upon  the  shoulders  and  walked  upon  the  heads  of  the 
compacted  throng  that  still  kept  their  feet ;  women  were  crushed  to  death  in 
the  press;  children  trodden  to  pieces.  Still,  the  ties  of  Nature  were  mighty. 
Husbands  upbore  wives  with  superhuman  strength ;  mothers  held  their 
offspring  so  tightly  enclasped,  that  the  tremendous  force  of  the  outward  tide 
could  not  tear  them  away ;  and  fathers,  with  arms  of  stone  and  thews  of 
steel,  lifted  their  sons  above  the  pressure  of  shoulders  and  heads. 

Katherine  had  spoken  but  once  in  the  dreadful  transit : 

'■  My  father  !" 

"Is  an  able-bodied  man — you  a  feeble  woman!" 

lie  had  no  more  breath  to  spare,  even  to  console  her.  "When  the  cloud  of 
-mi . k t-  full,  they  were  still  sonic  paces  from  the  staircase,  and  at  the  inhala- 
tion of  the  noisome  vapor,  Malcolm  felt   his  stout  heart  give  way.     Casting 


212  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

his  eyes  up  in  the  darkness,  he  descried  a  faint  glimmer  of  the  sky  through 
a  window.  Summoning  all  the  muscular  energy  that  remained  to  him,  he 
threw  himself  against  the  lower  sash.  It  fell  outward,  and  the  pure  air  of 
heaven  pouring  in  through  the  opening,  brought  back  departing  life  and 
hope  to  many  besides  himself.  A  cry  of  mingled  joy  and  anguish  went  up 
from  the  sufferers,  and  there  was  an  instant  rush  in  the  direction  of  the 
casement. 

"Trust  me!'*  said  Malcolm.  "Your  safety  is  dearer  to  me  than  my 
life." 

Katherine  felt  herself  raised  in  his  arms  as  he  spoke ;  the  cold  wind  blew 
more  freshly  over  her,  and,  realizing  with  a  shudder,  what  was  his  desperate 
resort,  she  shut  her  eyes,  as  he  swung  her  clear  of  the  building,  and  let 
her  go. 

A  pair  of  stout  arms  broke  her  fall.  "  All  safe,  missis !  Bless  the  Lord !" 
said  a  tall  negro,  whose  giant  frame  had  not  staggered  under  her  descending 
weight. 

"Gilbert!  Gilbert  Hunt!"  called  a  voice  from  an  upper  window. 

The  man  hallooed  in  reply,  and  hastened  away.  Katherine  gazed  with 
clasped  hands  and  dilated  eyes,  upon  the  casement  from  which  she  had  been 
lowered.  By  the  light  of  the  flames,  now  bursting  through  the  roof,  she  saw 
Malcolm  maintain  his  stand  within,  against  the  crazed  creatures  swarming 
over  him ;  saw  him  lower  one  and  another  quickly,  gently  as  he  had  done 
her  ;  heard  the  exclamations  of  thanksgiving  to  him  and  to  heaven,  as  each 
reached  the  ground  in  safety.  From  windows  above  and  below,  forms  were 
falling: — some  headlong  and  shrieking ;  some  prone  and  unresisting;  some 
with  clothes  on  fire — and  within  that  funeral  pyre  were  her  father  and  her 
lover— while  she  must  stand  inactive — see  all — hear  all — and  not  stir  to  save 
either !  A  fiercer,  more  agonizing  yell  came  from  the  imprisoned  wretches, 
marking,  as  she  afterward  knew,  the  sinking  of  the  staircase,  under  its 
accumulated  load  ;  and,  forgetting  the  self-command  she  had,  until  now,  so 
vigorously  preserved,  she  cried  aloud — "  Malcolm  !  Malcolm !  O,  come  to 
me!" 

He  heard — sent  one  hasty,  troubled  glance  over  the  horrified  faces  flock- 
ing about  the  inside  of  the  window — extricated  himself  from  clinging  hands 
and  crowding  forms — and  was  upon  the  earth  beside  her! 

"My  darling!  you  are  saved !     Thank  God!" 

He  asked  not  whether  he  had  the  right.  For  one  rapturous  instant  he 
held  her  to  his  heart,  as  the  fervent  ejaculation  passed  his  lips ;  for  one  second 


MARION    HARLAND.  213 

her  arms  were  about  his  neck — her  head  upon  his  breast — and  she  started 
up— 

"  My  father !     Have  you  seen  him  ?" 

"I  waited  for  him  as  long  as  I  dared!  I  trust  he  has  escaped  by  the 
door.     It  is  not  safe  to  stand  here !     See!" 

The  licking  flames,  now  blent  into  one  vast,  quivering,  swaying  pyramid, 
arose  toward  the  strangely  serene  sky.  There  was  no  more  sound  of  mortal 
woe  within  those  trembling  walls.  The  unequal  conflict  was  at  an  end. 
The  fire-fiend  held  high  carousal  where,  one  short  quarter  of  an  hour  before, 
peace,  and  pleasure,  and  joy — the  enjoyment  that  "takes  no  thought  for  the 
morrow  " — had  reigned  supreme ! 


LOVE  ME. 

Thy  heart  is  like  the  billowy  tide 

Of  some  impetuous  river, 
That  mighty  in  its  power  and  pride, 

Sweeps  on  and  on  forever. 
The  white  foam  is  its  battle  crest, 

As  to  the  charge  it  rushes 
And  from  its  vast  and  panting  breast, 

A  stormy  shout  up  gushes. 

"Through  all — o'er  all — my  way  I  cleave — 

Each  barrier  down-bearing — 
Fame  is  the  guerdon  of  the  brave. 

And  victory  of  the  daring!" 
While  mine  is  like  the  brooklet's  flow, 

Through  peaceful  valleys  gliding; 
O'er  which  the  willow  boughs  bend  low 

The  tiny  wavek-t  hiding. 

And  as  it  steals  on,  calm  and  clear, 

A  little  song  'tis  singing, 
That  vibrates  soft  upon  the  ear, 

Like  fairy  vespers  ringing. 


214  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  Love  rne — love  me  I"  it  murmurs  o'er, 
'Midst  light  and  shadows  ranging, 

"  Love  me,"  it  gurgles  evermore, 
The  burden  never  changing. 

Thine  is  the  eagle's  lofty  flight, 

With  ardent  hope,  aspiring 
E'en  to  the  flaming  source  of  light, 

Undoubting  and  untiring. 
Glory,  with  gorgeous  sunbeam  throws 

An  Iris  mantle  o'er  thee — 
A  radiant  present  round  thee  glows — 

Deathless  renown  before  thee. 

And  I,  like  a  shy,  timid  dove, 

That  shuns  noon's  fervid  beaming, 
And  far  within  the  silent  grove, 

Sits,  lost  in  loving  dreaming — 
Turn,  half  in  joy,  and  half  in  fear, 

From  thine  ambitious  soaring, 
And  seek  to  hide  me  from  the  glare, 

That  o'er  thy  track  is  pouring 

I  cannot  echo  back  the  notes 

Of  triumph  thou  art  pealing, 
But  from  my  woman's  heart  there  floats 

The  music  of  one  feeling. 
One  single,  longing,  pleading  moan, 

Whose  voice  I  cannot  smother — 
"Love  me — love  me!"  its  song  alone, 

And  it  will  learn  no  other ! 


MARION    UARLAND-  215 


AT  PEACE. 


A  pearly  mist,  like  a  young  bride's  veil, 

Folds  softly  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  sportsome  waves,  that  all  the  day, 

Have  flashed  and  danced  in  glee — 
Each  rippling  smile  now  passed  away 

With  the  autumn  sun's  rod  glare — 
Lie  hushed — as  happy  children  bow 

At  their  mother's  knee  in  prayer. 
The  same  sweet  calm  is  on  my  heart ; 

The  gently  heaving  tide 
Bears  now  no  trace  of  storm  that  swept 

O'er  it  in  angry  pride. 
The  surface  sleeps  all  tranquilly 

O'er  earth-born  passions'  grave, 
And  a  gleam,  like  that  of  heaven's  first  star 

Is  trembling  on  the  wave. 
Father  !   I  thank  Thee !  though  this  light 

Be  not  the  roseate  hue 
That  tinged  with  fresh  and  changeful  shade, 

My  soul  when  life  was  new. 
Though  the  foamy  billows  bound  no  more 

In  simbright  revelry; 
Nor  echo  back  the  tempest's  shout 

And  wild  wind's  anthem  free ; 
Though  in  the  deep,  I  look  in  vain 

For  youthful  visions  fair — 
Let  the  rich  pearls  of  Faith  and  Hope 

Lie  fondly  cradled  there. 
Oh !  may  thy  love,  as  twilight  dews, 

Upon  my  spirit  rest, 
And  still  that  ray  of  heavenly  light 

Be  mirrored  in  my  breast ! 


EMMA  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 

Among  our  impassioned  writers,  whose  crowded  and 
pungent  lives  seem  to  flow  out  resistlessly  from  their  pens, 
no  woman's  name  is  more  electrical  to  the  popular  ear  than 
that  of  Mrs.  Southworth.  Voluminous  as  her  writings  are, 
embracing  a  wide  personal  and  emotional  range,  we  are  told 
that  she  has  never  yet  drawn  upon  her  imagination  for  the 
basis  of  a  single  character.  To  this  fact  may  be  attributed 
the  power  of  her  portraiture,  and  the  spell  which  holds  her 
readers. 

Nothing  is  so  strange  as  reality ;  and  Mrs.  Southworth,  in 
bringing  veritable  men  and  women  from  the  extremes  of  her 
observation,  and  allowing  them  full  scope  for  self-assertion,  has 
laid  her  stories  open  to  the  charge  of  unnaturalness.  Then,  too, 
if  she  has  not  drawn  upon  her  imagination,  as  a  pervading 
element  of  her  mind,  it  has  surrounded  and  infiltrated  her 
characters.  Peculiar  circumstances  having  called  into  action 
all  the  fire  and  force  of  her  nature,  she  has  poured  herself  out 
through  these  living  media,  and  their  loves  and  hates  have  lost 
nothing  by  the  intense  attrition. 

She  writes  with  great  facility,  and  dashes  off  one  book  after 
another  witli  a  rapidity  almost  incredible.  In  five  years  she 
published  eleven  large  volumes,  but  in  doing  this,  upon  the  spur 
of  necessity,  it  was  impossible  to  be  just  to  herself.  These 
works  are  full  of  vigor  and  dramatic  interest,  impressing  one 
always  with  that  most  excellent  sense  of  a  superabundance  of 

216 


EMMA    D.   E.   N.   SOUTHWORTH.  217 

heart  and  brain  in  reserve,  but  they  would  gain  much  in  a 
careful  revision.  She  excels  in  her  delineations  of  negro 
character,  and  her  descriptions  of  southern  life  and  scenery  are, 
some  of  them,  inimitable. 

Emma  D.  E.  Nevitte  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Captain 
Charles  L.  Nevitte,  of  Alexandria,  Virginia,  and  of  Susannah 
George  Wattes,  of  St.  Mary's  County,  Maryland.  She  was 
descended  from  families  of  high  rank  in  England  and  France ; 
through  her  father,  from  Charles,  Le  Comte  Nevitte,  and,  on 
her  mother's  side,  from  Sir  Thomas  Grenfeldt,  a  knight  of  the 
time  of  James  I.  Her  ancestors  emigrated  to  this  country  in 
1632,  and  were  conspicuous  in  the  American  Revolution.  Her 
father,  who  was  a  large  importing  merchant  of  Alexandria, 
served  at  the  head  of  a  company  of  volunteers  in  the  war  of 
1812,  and  received  a  wound  from  which  he  never  recovered. 
At  the  age  of  forty-five,  Captain  Nevitte  married  his  second 
wife,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  too  young  to  be  separated  from  her 
widowed  mother,  who  removed  with  them  to  "Washington, 
where  they  leased  together  the  spacious  house  once  occupied 
by  General  Washington. 

Here  (says  Mrs.  Southworth)  I  was  born,  on  the  26th  of  December,  1818, 
in  the  very  chamber  once  tenanted  by  General  Washington.  I  was  a  child 
of  sorrow  from  the  very  first  year  of  my  life.  Thin  and  dark,  I  had  no 
beauty  except  a  pair  of  large,  wild  eyes — but  even  this  was  destined  to  be 
tarnished.  At  twelve  months  I  was  attacked  with  an  inflammation  of  the 
eyes,  that  ended  in  total,  though  happily  temporary,  blindness ;  thus  my  first 
view  of  life  was  through  a  dim,  mysterious  cathedral  light,  in  which  every 
object  in  the  world  looked  larger,  vaguer,  and  more  distant  and  imposing 
than  it  really  was.  Among  the  friends  around  me,  the  imposing  form  and 
benignant  face  of  my  dear  grandmother  made  the  deepest  impression.  At 
three  years  of  age  my  sight  began  to  clear.  About  this  time  my  only  own 
sister  was  born.  She  was  a  very  beautiful  child,  with  fair  and  rounded 
form,  rosy  complexion,  soft-blue  eyes,  and  golden  hair,  that  in  after  years 
became  of  a  bright  chestnut.     She  was  of  a  lively,  social,  loving  nature,  aud, 


218  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

as  she  grew,  won  all  hearts  around  her — parents,  cousins,  nurses,  servants, 
and  all  who  had  been  wearied  to  death  with  two  years'  attendance  on  such 
a  weird  little  elf  as  myself — yes,  and  who  made  me  feel  it  too. 

I  was  wildly,  passionately  attached  to  my  father,  and  even  his  partiality 
in  favor  of  my  younger  sister — his  "dove-eyed  darling,"  as  he  called  her,  did 
not  affect  my  love  for  him.  But  he  was  often  from  home  for  months  at  a 
time,  and  all  my  life  was  then  divided  into  two  periods--when  he  was  at 
home,  and  when  he  was  gone ;  and  every  event  dated  from  one  of  two  epochs 
— joyfully,  "since  father  came  home:"  sadly,  "since  father  went  away." 
But  at  last  my  father,  who  had  never  recovered  from  the  effects  of  his  wound, 
got  a  cold,  which  fell  upon  his  lungs.  His  health  declined  rapidly.  My  joys 
and  sorrows  now  took  these  forms — "Father  is  able  to  walk  about!" 
"Father  is  sick  in  bed?" 

My  father  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  my  mother  an  Episcopalian.  This 
accounts  for  what  occurred  about  this  time.  One  day  my  sister  and  myself 
were  dressed  and  taken  into  my  father's  room.  We  found  all  the  family 
assembled,  with  several  neighbors,  around  our  father's  bed.  The  priest  was 
there  in  his  sacred  vestments.  He  had  come  to  administer  the  last  consola- 
tions of  the  church  to  our  father,  and  was  now  about  to  christen  myself  and 
my  sister  by  his  dying  bed.  After  these  rites  of  baptism  were  over,  we  were 
taken  from  the  room,  but  not  before  our  father  had  laid  his  dying  hands 
upon  our  heads  and  blessed  us.  I  do  not  know  how  long  it  was  after  this, 
or  where  we  were  standing,  when  some  one — I  know  not  who — came  and 
said,  "  Emma,  your  father  is  dead."  I  remember  I  felt  as  if  I  had  received 
a  sudden,  stunning  blow  upon  the  brow.  I  reeled  back  from  the  blow  an 
instant,  unable  to  meet  it,  and  then,  with  an  impulse  to  escape  from  the  cala- 
mity, turned  and  fled — fled  with  my  utmost  speed,  until,  at  some  distance 
from  home,  I  fell  upon  my  face  exhausted,  insensible.  That  is  all  I  remem- 
ber, except  the  dark  pageantry  of  the  funeral,  which  seemed  to  me  like  a 
hideous  dream.  I  was  then  about  four  years  old,  my  sister  one  year  old. 
For  months,  and  even  years  after,  I  ruminated  on  life,  death,  heaven,  and 
hell,  with  a  painful  intensity  of  thought  impossible  to  describe. 

After  my  father's  death,  my  grandmother  and  mother  were  in  very 
straitened  circumstances,  and  found  it  extremely  difficult  to  keep  up  the 
style  of  living  to  which  they  had  been  accustomed.  My  grandmother  had 
some  property  that  brought  her  in  a  moderate  income ;  they  had  besides  the 
house  leased,  and,  for  that  day,  very  sumptuously  furnished.  My  grand- 
mother yielded  to  th«  advice  of  her  friends,  and  received  a  few  very  select 


EMMA    D.    E.    N.   SOUTHWORTH.  219 

boarders.  But  she  was  a  lady  of  the  lofty  old  school,  and  never  could  bear 
to  present  a  bill ;  so  the  end  of  it  was  she  gave  it  up  in  a  year. 

At  the  age  of  six,  I  was  a  little,  thin,  dark,  wild-eyed  elf,  shy  awk- 
ward, and  unattractive,  and,  in  consequence,  very  much — let  alone.  I  spent 
much  time  in  solitude,  revery,  or  mischief;  took  to  attics,  cellars,  and  cock- 
lofts, consorting  with  cats  and  pigeons,  or  with  the  old  negroes  in  the 
kitchen,  listening  with  open  ears  and  mind  to  ghost  stories,  old  legends,  and 
tales  of  the  times  when  "ole  mist'ess  was  rich  and  saw  lots  of  grand  com- 
pany " — very  happy  when  I  could  get  my  little  sister  to  share  my  queer 
pleasures  ;  but  "  Lotty"  was  a  parlor  favorite,  and  was  better  pleased  with  the 
happy  faces  of  our  young  country  cousins,  some  of  whom  were  always  with 
us  on  long  visits.  The  brightest  lights  of  those  days  were  the  frequent  visits 
we  would  make  down  into  St.  Mary's  County,  sometimes  sailing  down  the 
majestic  Potomac  as  far  as  St.  Clement's  Isle  and  Bay,  where  we  generally 
landed,  and  sometimes  going  in  the  old  family  carriage  through  the  grand 
old  forest  between  the  District  of  Columbia  and  the  shores  of  the  Chesapeake. 
We  often  received  visits  also  from  our  country  kinsfolk  —  visits  of  months' 
and  even  of  years'  duration. 

At  this  time  of  my  life,  rejoicing  in  the  light  and  liberty  of  nature,  I 
should  have  been  very  happy  also  in  the  love  of  my  friends  and  relations,  if 
they  had  permitted  it;  but  no  matter!  Year  after  year,  from  my  eighth  to 
my  sixteenth  year,  I  grew  more  lonely,  retired  more  into  myself,  until,  not- 
withstanding a  strong,  ardent,  demonstrative  temperament,  I  became  cold, 
reserved,  and  abstracted,  even  to  absence  of  mind — even  to  apparent  insensi- 
bility. 

Let  me  pass  over  in  silence  the  stormy  and  disastrous  days  of  my 
WTetched  girlhood  and  womanhood — days  that  stamped  upon  my  brow  of 
youth  the  furrows  of  fifty  years— let  me  come  at  once  to  the  time  when  I 
found  myself  broken  in  spirit,  health,  and  purse — a  widow  in  fate,  but  not 
in  fact — with  my  babes  looking  up  to  me  for  a  support  I  could  not  give  them. 
It  was  in  these  dearest  days  of  my  -womarCs  life  that  my  author's  life  com- 
menced. I  wrote  and  published  "Retribution,"  my  first  novel,  under  the 
following  circumstances : 

In  January,  18-19,  I  had  been  appointed  teacher  of  the  Fourth  District 
Primary  School.  The  school  was  kept  in  the  two  largest  rooms  in  my 
house,  those  upon  the  ground  floor.  I  had  eighty  pupils.  A  few  months 
previous  to  this,   I  hail   written   a  few   short   tales   and   sketches  for  the 


220  WOMEN    OP    THE    SOUTH. 

"  National  Era."  It  was  -while  I  was  organizing  my  new  school,  that  Dr. 
Bailey  applied  to  me  for  another  story.  I  promised  one  that  should  go 
through  two  papers.  I  called  up  several  subjects  of  a  profoundly  moral  and 
philosophical  nature,  upon  which  the  very  trials  and  sufferings  of  my  own 
life  had  led  me  to  reflect,  and  from  among  them  selected  moral  retribution, 
as  I  understood  it.  I  designed  to  illustrate  the  idea  by  a  short  tale.  I  com- 
menced, and  somehow  or  other,  my  head  and  heart  were  teeming  with 
thought  and  emotion,  and  the  idea  that  had  at  first  but  glimmered  faintly  upon 
my  perceptions,  blazed  into  a  perfect  glory  of  light,  but  which  I  fear  I  have 
not  been  able  to  transmit  to  others  with  the  brightness  with  which  it  shone 
upon  myself.  No,  it  was  dimmed  by  the  dullness  of  the  medium.  My  story 
grew  into  a  volume.  Every  week  I  would  supply  a  portion  to  the  paper, 
until  weeks  grew  into  months,  and  months  into  quarters,  before  it  was 
finished. 

The  circumstances  under  which  this,  my  first  novel,  was  written,  and  the 
success  which  afterward  attended  its  publication,  is  a  remarkable  instance  of 
"sowing  in  tears  and  reaping  in  joy ;"  for  in  addition  to  that  bitterest  s<:  r- 
row  with  which  I  may  not  make  you  acquainted — that  great  life  sorrow — 
I  had  many  minor  troubles.  My  small  salary  was  inadequate  to  our  comfort- 
able support.  My  school  numbered  eighty  pupils,  boys  and  girls,  and  I  h  id 
the  whole  charge  of  them.  Added  to  this,  my  little  boy  fell  dangerously  ill, 
and  was  confined  to  his  bed  in  perfect  helplessness  until  June.  He  would 
suffer  no  one  to  move  him  but  myself;  in  fact  no  one  else  could  do  so  with- 
out putting  him  in  pain.  Thus  my  time  was  passed  between  my  housekeep- 
ing, my  schoolkeeping,  my  child's  sick-bed,  and  my  literary  labors.  The 
time  devoted  to  writing  was  the  hours  that  should  have  been  given  to  sleep 
or  to  fresh  air.  It  was  too  much  for  me.  It  was  too  much  for  any  human 
being.  My  health  broke  down.  I  was  attacked  with  frequent  hemorrhage 
of  the  lungs.  Still  I  persevered.  I  did  my  best  by  my  house,  my  school, 
my  sick  child,  and  my  publisher.  Yet  neither  child,  nor  school,  nor  pub- 
lisher received  justice.  The  child  suffered  and  complained,  the  patrons  of 
the  school  grew  dissatisfied,  annoying,  and  sometimes  insulting  me,  and 
as  for  the  publisher,  he  would  reject  whole  pages  of  that  manuscript,  which 
was  written  amid  grief,  and  pain,  and  toil  that  he  knew  nothing  of — pages, 
by  the  way,  that  were  restored  in  the  republication. 

This  was  indeed  the  very  melie  of  the  "  Battle  of  Life."  I  was  forced  to 
keep  up,  struggling,  when  I  only  wished  for  death  and  for  rest. 

But  look  you  how  it  terminated.     That  night  of  storm  and  darkness 


EMMA    D.   E.   N.   SOUTHWORTH.  221 

came  to  an  end,  and  morning  broke  on  me  at  last — a  bright,  glad  morning, 
pioneering  a  new  and  happy  day  of  life.  First  of  all,  it  was  in  this  very 
tempest  of  trouble  that  my  "  life  sorrow,"  was,  as  it  were,  carried  away,  or 
/  was  carried  away  from  brooding  over  it.  Next,  my  child,  contrary  to  my 
own  opinion  and  the  doctor's,  got  well.  Then,  my  book,  written  in  so  much 
pain,  published  beside  in  a  newspaper,  and  withal,  being  the  first  work  of  an 
obscure  and  penniless  author,  was,  contrary  to  all  probabilities,  accepted  by 
the  first  publishing  house  in  America,  was  published,  and  subsequently 
noticed  with  high  favor,  even  by  the  cautious  English  reviews.  Friends 
crowded  around  me,  offers  for  contributions  poured  in  upon  me.  And  I, 
who  six  months  before  had  been  poor,  ill,  forsaken,  slandered,  hilled  by 
sorrow,  privation,  toil,  and  friendlessness,  found  myself  born,  as  it  were, 
into  a  new  life ;  found  independence,  sympathy,  friendship  and  honor,  and 
an  occupation  in  which  I  could  delight.  All  this  came  very  suddenly,  as 
after  a  terrible  storm,  a  sun-burst. 

So  much  of  Mrs.  Southworth's  history  we  give  in  her 
own  words,  because  in  no  other  way  could  she  be  brought  so 
palpably  before  us.  Through  her  sharp,  nervous  delineations 
we  trace  clearly  the  mold  of  circumstance  which  gave  shape 
and  direction  to  her  career ;  we  better  understand  the  growth 
of  her  weird  and  vivid  fancy ;  we  feel  the  fiery  elements  which 
entered  into  her  emotional  nature,  and  became  the  pervading 
characteristic  of  her  works. 

It  is  not  stated  in  this  sketch  that  the  mother  of  our  author 
was  married  (a  second  time)  to  Joshua  L.  Henshaw,  of  Boston, 
and  that  to  him  Mrs.  Southworth  is  indebted  almost  entirely  for 
her  education.  Under  his  culture,  vigorous  shoots  began  to 
show  themselves  in  her  mental  soil,  pricking  the  mold  with  a 
force  and  positiveness  which  augured  well  for  their  future  growth. 
She  was  soon  a  leading  scholar  in  his  school,  and  from  that  time 
continued  steadily  to  advance. 

Three  years  after  the  event  which  involved  her  "life 
sorrow,"  as  she  sat,  on  a  Christmas  evening,  broken  in  spirit 
and  hope,  her  little  ones  asleep  beside  her,  suggesting  painfully 


222  WOMEN     OF    THE    SOUTH. 

their  dependence,  and  her  slender  resources,  she  at  last  wandered 
dreamily  off  into  an  old  tradition  of  St.  Mary's,  which  her  mother 
had  recently  related  to  her;  and  finding  her  sad  thoughts 
beguiled  by  its  stirring  incidents,  began  to  wonder  if  she  could 
not  render  it,  with  equal  interest,  into  a  tale  for  publication. 
The  trial  was  made,  and  resulted  in  "  The  Irish  Eefugee," 
which  was  accepted  at  once  by  the  editor  of  the  "  Baltimore 
Saturday  Visitor,"  who  very  kindly  wrote  a  note  of  encourage- 
ment to  the  author.  With  this  new  impulse,  she  soon  com- 
pleted a  second  story,  "  The  Wife's  Victory,"  and  so  entered 
upon  her  literary  career. 

After  dashing  off  a  series  of  tales  for  the  "  National  Era," 
and  attracting  much  attention  by  the  electric  vigor  of  her  style, 
writing  all  this  time  from  an  overcharged  heart  and  brain, 
without  a  thought  of  compensation,  she  was  obliged  to  put  by 
the  luxury  of  the  pen,  and  give  all  her  energies  to  her  school 
and  her  needle.  Her  funds  were  running  low,  her  salary  was 
in  arrears,  winter  was  approaching,  and  her  heart  sank  within 
her.  At  this  juncture,  she  was  most  agreeably  surprised  by  a 
visit  from  the  editor  of  the  "  Era,"  who  placed  in  her  hands  a 
generous  remuneration  for  past  services,  and  engaged  her  as  a 
regular  contributor.  She  at  once  commenced  her  third  story, 
"  Sybil  Brotherton,  or  The  Temptation,"  intending  to  complete 
it  in  one  number ;  but  it  grew  at  last  to  the  length  of  a  novel- 
ette, and  proved  a  stepping-stone  to  the  continuous  works  which 
have  since  distinguished  her. 

In  1849,  "  Ketribution "  was  reproduced  by  Harper  & 
Brothers.  In  no  work  of  Mrs.  Southworth's  do  we  find  a 
stronger  stamp  of  her  peculiar  genius.  Long-pent  emotions 
pour  through  it  like  streams  of  lava.  Her  characters  glow 
with  the  white  heat  of  her  own  experience.  With  such  ele- 
ments, the  book  could  not  fail  to  place  the  author  at  once  in  the 
public  eye.     Yet  had  those  elements  been  retouched  and  toned 


\ 


EMMA    D.    E.   N.   SOUTHWORTH.  223 

when  the  white  heat  had  passed,  they  would  have  lost  none  of 
their  power,  and  detracted  nothing  from  the  fame  of  the  author. 
About  this  time,  she  became  a  contributor  to  the  "  Philadelphia 
Saturday  Evening  Post,"  a  relation  which  she  sustained  for 
several  years  with  pleasure  and  profit. 

In  five  years,  dating  from  the  appearance  of  "  Retribution,' 
she  wrote  and  published  the  following  volumes:  "The  Deserted 
Wife,"  " Shannondale,"  "The  Mother-in-Law,"  "Children  of 
the  Isle,"  "  The  Foster  Sisters,"  "  The  Curse  of  Clifton,"  "  Old 
Neighborhoods  and  New  Settlements,"  "Mark  Sutherland," 
"The  Lost  Heiress,"  and  "Hickory  Hall."  Since  that  time,  a 
handsome  uniform  edition  of  these  works,  with  the  addition  of 
two  others,  "  The  Lady  of  the  Isle,"  and  "  The  Haunted  Home- 
stead," have  been  brought  out  by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers, 
of  Philadelphia.  With  the  advantage  of  this  attractive  presen- 
tation, the  books  are  still  having  a  large  and  extended  sale. 
They  have  also  been  translated  into  French  and  German,  and 
have  sold  largely  in  London,  Paris,  and  Leipsic. 

Having  thus,  by  her  indefatigable  efforts,  achieved  fame  and 
competence,  Mrs.  Southworth  removed,  in  1853,  to  a  charming 
villa  on  the  Potomac  Heights,  at  the  west  end  of  Georgetown. 
Here,  tor  six  years,  she  resided  with  her  children;  her  home, 
especially  during  the  sessions  of  Congress,  being  the  resort  of 
distinguished  people  from  all  parts  of  the  Union.  With  these 
social  privileges,  the  culture  of  her  children,  and  her  literary 
labors,  in  which  she  has  ever  found  her  true  vocation — witli 
rides,  drives,  and  rambles  through  the  romantic  country  which 
surrounded  her,  and  occasional  excursions  to  the  sea-shore,  the 
mountains,  and  our  larger  northern  cities,  the  years  glided  by  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  dark  days  that  preceded  them. 

"  Fortune  favors  the  brave,"  and  soon  after  Mrs.  South- 
worth's  removal  to  this  pleasant  home,  her  services  were  secured 
exclusively  for  the  "  New  York  Ledger,"  the  bounteous  editor 


224  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

of  that  journal,  as  a  matter  of  course,  making  the  engagement 
the  crowning  one  of  her  literary  career. 

It  is  pleasant  to  trace  in  Mrs.  Southworth's  later  writings, 
the  genial  effect  of  sunshine  and  sympathy.  Her  stories  are 
still  impassioned,  hut  there  are  no  currents  that  scathe  as  w. 
follow  them.  This  is  especially  true  of  the  serial  "Rose 
Elmer,"  just  now  being  published  in  the  "  Ledger,"  as  well  as 
"  Capitola,"  which  appeared  some  months  since  in  the  same 
journal.  The  latter  fairly  sparkles  and  dances  with  vivacity ; 
and  even  the  "  villain  of  the  plot,"  does  his  devoir  with  an  unma- 
licious,  deprecating  grace,  that  excites  in  us  only  a  desire  to  win 
him  from  his  evil  way,  and  make  a  taking  little  saint  of  him. 

In  1859,  finding  her  health  failing  at  last,  under  the  strain 
of  constant  application,  Mrs.  Southworth  took  leave,  for  a  time, 
of  "Prospect  Cottage,"  and  went,  with  her  two  children, 
"  to  recruit  under  the  green  shadows  of  old  English  homes." 
That  she  still  lingers  is,  we  trust,  a  proof  that  English  shadows 
are  falling  balmily. 

LADY  ETHERIDGE   BECOMES  A  GOVERNESS. 

Laura  Elmer  arrived  in  London  alone,  at  nightfall.  Leaving  the  mail- 
coach,  she  called  a  fry,  had  her  luggage  put  on,  and  directed  the  driver  to 
drive  to  a  house  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable  localities  in  the  West 
End.  An  hour's  ride  brought  her  to  within  a  few  blocks  of  her  destina- 
tion. To  get  nearer  seemed  impossible,  from  the  long  line  of  carriages 
that  stood  along  the  street  in  front  of  the  house,  and  stopped  the  way. 
Every  circumstance  seemed  to  indicate  that  a  large  evening  party  was  being 
entertained  at  the  house  in  question. 

Laura  put  down  the  window,  and  asked  the  driver : 

"  Can  you  get  no  further  ?" 

"  No,  madam;  not  as  yet,"  answered  the  cabman. 

"  How  long  shall  we  have  to  stay  here?" 

"  Himpossile  to  say,  mum.  Here  be  a  great  crowd,  as  her  la'ship  his 
'aving  of  a  ball,  or  summut." 


EMMA    D.   E.   N.   SOUTUWORTH.  225 

Laura  sunk  back  in  her  seat,  and  waited  perhaps  half  an  hour  before  the 
cab  drew  up  to  the  door,  which,  standing  open,  revealed  a  lighted  ball,  with 
a  supercilious-looking  porter,  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  and  several  footmen  in 
attendance,  to  one  of  whom  Laura  banded  her  card. 

Laura  Elmer  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and  muffled  in  the  elo  .k  and 
hood  in  which  she  had  travelled  from  Swinburne.  But  there  was  in  her  air 
and  manner  a  certain  gracious  dignity  that  seemed  to  mark  her  as  a  lady  of 
high  rank.  The  servant  that  received  her  card  bowed  low,  and  showed  her 
up  the  broad  staircase  to  the  door  of  a  cloak-room,  where  several  splendidly- 
dressed  ladies  were  laying  off  their  wrappings  before  passing  into  the 
drawing-room. 

Laura  saw  at  once  the  servant's  very  natural  error,  and  turning,  said : 

"  I  think  you  mistake  me  for  one  of  the  invited  guests,  this  evening." 

Even  that  explanation  did  not  shake  the  servant's  faith  in  the  high  posi- 
tion of  the  noble-looking  woman  before  him.  He  glanced  at  her  deep 
mourning,  and  thought  lie  had  found  the  reason  why  she  was  not  a  guest  at 
the  gay  party.     He  answered,  respectfully  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam ;  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  walk  into  the 
library,  I  will  take  your  card  up  to  her  ladyship." 

And  the  man  opened  a  door  on  the  left,  and  showed  the  visitor  into  a 
spacious  and  richly-furnished  library.  Laura  seated  herself  at  a  table,  and 
mechanically  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  folio  while  waiting  the  return  of 
the  servant. 

Presently  she  heard  voices  without  the  door — one  was  that  of  the  foot- 
man who  had  carried  up  her  card,  and  who  seemed  to  be  apologizing  for  the 
mistake  be  had  made.  The  other  was  the  voice  of  an  elderly  female  servant, 
who  was  roundly  lecturing  the  man  in  the  following  words: 

"  To  carry  up  the  governess's  card  to  'er  ladyship  in  the  drawing-room  ! 
I'm  ashamed  of  you,  James !  but  hi  never  could  teach  you  the  difference 
between  a  lady  and  a  woman.  Now  I  not  only  know  a  lady  from  a  woman, 
but  among  ladies,  hi  can  halways  tell  a  mistress,  han  'onorable  mistress,  a 
lady,  a  baroness,  a  viscountess,  countess,  marchioness,  and  duchess,  the 
minute  hi  see  one,  and  hi  graduate  my  respects  baccordingly.  Hand  simi- 
larly among  young  ladies,  I  can  tell  at  sight  a  miss,  han  'onorable  miss,  hand 
a  lady  ;  hand  likewise  graduates  my  respects  baccordingly.  Now,  a  governess, 
James,  is  not  by  no  means  a  lady;  but  his  only  a  person  hentitled  to  no 
manner  of  respects  whatsomedever,  except  Christian  charity,  has  one  may 
say.     Now  you  shall  see  how  I  receives  this  governess." 

15 


226  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"Just  so,  Mrs.  Jones;  you'll  put  her  on  lier  proper  footing  in  no  time." 

"You  shall  see,  James." 

But  Mrs.  Jones  did  not  know  that  there  were  spiritual  hierarchies  as 
dominant  as  were  earthly  ones,  and  that  in  Laura  Elmer's  person  lived  the 
honor-compelling  spirit  of  a  queen. 

She  opened  the  door  and  hustled  in,  swinging  herself  from  side  to  side, 
with  all  the  insolence  of  a  pampered  menial,  and  was  ahout  to  speak,  when 
Laura  Elmer  raised  her  stately  head,  and  fixed  her  full,  dark  eyes  upon  the 
woman's  face ;  whereupon  the  latter  immediately,  and  quite  involuntarily, 
dropped  a  courtesy,  and  addressing  Miss  Elmer  very  respectfully,  said  : 

"  My  lady  has  sent  me  to  receive  you,  ma'am.     "Would  you  prefer  to  see 
your  room  hefore  you  take  supper  ?" 

'•  I  thank  you  ;  you  may  show  me  to  my  apartment,  and  send  me  a  cup 
of  tea;  that  is  all  I  shall  require  to-night,"  said  Laura. 

The  housekeeper  touched  a  bell,  which  was  answered  by  a  housemaid,  to 
whom  she  said : 

"  Show  Miss  Elmer  to  the  bed-chamber  adjoining  the  school-room,  and 
take  her  up  a  cup  of  tea." 

The  girl  brought  a  light,  and  requesting  Miss  Elmer  to  precede  her, 
showed  the  way  from  the  library. 

"There,  James,  you  see  with  what  self-respect  and  dignity  hi  treat  the 
governess,"  said  the  housekeeper,  just  as  soon  as  the  restraining  influence  of 
Laura's  presence  was  withdrawn. 

"  Can't  say  as  I  did,  Mrs.  Jones,"  said  the  footman,  very  drily. 

••You  seen,  at  least,  hi  kept  her  at  a  distance,"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"  I  see  as  you  kept  yourself  at  a  respectful  distance,  just  as  I  should,  if 
any  haccident  was  to  throw  me  in  the  way  of  her  majesty  the  queen." 

"You're  a  himperent  fellow,  and  hi  shall  report  you  to  Sir  Vincent!" 
exclaimed  the  housekeeper,  in  a  fury,  as,  swinging  herself  from  side  to  side, 
she  brushed  out  of  the  room. 

■■Well!  governess  or  duchess,  I  could  no  more  fail  in  respects  to  that 
young  lady,  than  I  could  to  Lady  Lester  herself.  Leastways,  when  I'm  in 
her  presence  ;  nor  no  more  could  you,  Mrs.  Jones,  for  all  your  swinging 
ahout  of  your  hoops  behind  her  back.  Why,  she's  grander-looking  in  her 
plain  black  dress,  than  all  the  peeresses  in  their  velvets  and  diamonds,  as  I 
saw  hannounced  in  the  drawing-room  this  hevening,"  was  the  acute  criticism 
of  the  footman,  James,  as  he  returned  to  his  post  of  service  in  the  hall 
below. 


EMMA    D.   E.   N.   SOUTHWORTH.  227 

Meanwhile,  Laura  Elmer  was  conducted  by  the  housemaid  to  her 
apartment,  next  the  school-room,  in  the  third  story. 

"  My  lady  appointed  this  floor  as  the  apartments  of  the  young  ladies  and 
their  governess,  upon  account  of  its  quiet  and  fresh  air,  and  I  am  directed  to 
wait  on  you  and  them,  ma'am.  Is  there  anything  I  can  bring  you  with  your 
tea  ?"  asked  the  maid,  as  she  ushered  Miss  Elmer  into  the  comfortably  fur- 
nished and  well-lighted  bed-room,  where  her  luggage  had  already  been 
brought. 

"  Nothing  else,  thank  you.     My  good  girl,  what  is  your  name?" 

"  Lizzy,  ma'am.-' 

"Nothing,  then,  Lizzy,"  said  Miss  Elmer,  laying  off  her  wrappings  and 
bonnet,  and  throwing  herself  into  an  arm-chair  before  the  bright  fire. 

And  then  the  excitement  that  had  sustained  her  through  the  long 
journey,  subsided,  now  that  it  was  over.  There  came  a  strong  reaction,  and 
she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears;  but  not  one  thought  was  given  to  the  loss 
of  wealth  or  title;  a  commonplace  woman  might  indeed  have  wept  bitterly 
for  the  loss  of  these,  but  Laura  Elmer  could  only  weep  for  the  greater 
bereavement  of  her  heart. 

"  If  he  had  been  taken  away  from  me  by  death,  while  I  yet  believed  him 
to  be  true  and  noble,  then,  indeed,  I  could  have  borne  it !  I  should  have 
put  on  mourning  and  lived  through  all  my  pilgrimage  on  earth  a  widowed 
maiden  for  his  sake,  waiting  for  that  death  which  should  re-unite  us  in 
eternal  love.  But  now  !  but  now !  he  is  lost  to  me  forever,  in  time  and  in 
eternity!" 

She  dropped  her  face  once  more  upon  her  hands,  and  sobbed  as  though 
the  very  fountains  of  her  life  were  breaking  up. 

Thus  bitterly  she  wept  in  her  hour  of  weakness  for  the  false-hearted 
traitor,  caring  nothing,  knowing  nothing  of  the  true  and  noble  heart  who 
had  secretly  consecrated  himself  to  her  service,  and  who  would  gladly  have 
shed  his  blood,  drop  by  drop,  to  have  saved  her  from  shedding  tears. 

Not  long  did  her  weakness  last.  She  dashed  the  sparkiing  drops  from 
her  eye,  murmuring : 

"  I  must  not  give  way  to  sorrow  for  the  past.  I  must  struggle  through 
my  life.  I  must  not  murmur  at  misfortune,  but  rather  thank  heaven  for  the 
blessings  that  are  left.  I  have  lost  wealth,  position,  and  my  false  love;  but, 
I  have  left  youth,  health,  intellect,  and  much  acquired  knowledge,  with 
many  accomplishments.  These  will  always  enable  me  to  had  a  useful  life. 
How  much  more  favored  am  I  still  than  half  my  fellow-creatures !     I  will 


228  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

grieve  no  more,  but  rather  show  my  gratitude  to  heaven  by  a  cheerful 
industry  in  the  station  in  life,  which  Providence  has  assigned  me." 

She  arose,  bathed  her  eyes,  and  smoothed  her  hair,  and  resumed  her  seat 
just  as  Lizzie  entered  with  the  tea-tray. 

And  after  this  slight  refreshment,  Laura  Elmer  dismissed  her  attendant 
and  retired  to  bed.  She  could  not  sleep.  The  novelty  of  her  position  was 
enough  to  have  disturbed  her  repose ;  but  this  was  not  all.  Accustomed  all 
her  life  to  the  luxurious  stillness  of  Swinburne  Castle,  where  her  own  deli- 
cious sleeping-room  was  blind  to  light  and  deaf  to  sound,  she  found  the  noise 
of  the  London  streets  a  perfect  antidote  to  sleep.  All  night  long  there  was 
the  sound  of  carriages  coming  and  going,  as  late  guests  arrived  and  early 
ones  departed.  At  length  when  day  broke,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
woke  to  life,  London  became  quiet. 

Laura  Elmer  dropped  asleep,  and  was  visited  by  a  singular  dream  or 
vision.  First  there  was  infused  into  her  soul  a  delicious  warmth  and  light, 
strengthening  as  soothing.  She  was  again  at  Swinburne  Castle.  The  beau- 
tiful and  beloved  home  of  her  childhood  and  youth  was  bathed  in  the  sun- 
shine of  a  glorious  summer's  day.  Many  loving  friends  were  around  her,  and 
by  her  side  was  one  whose  kingly  countenance  seemed  strange,  yet  strangely 
familiar,  and  whom,  in  her  dream,  she  loved  with  a  passion  as  profound  as  it 
was  elevated,  as  ardent  as  it  was  pure. 

In  his  hand  he  held  the  coronet  of  her  ancient  house.  This  glittering 
diadem  he  placed  upon  her  brow,  saying : 

"Hail,  my  beloved!  once  more  Laura,  T.aronness  of  Etheridge  of 
Swinburne !" 

With  the  fullness  of  joy  that  this  diadem  inspired,  she  awoke,  and  the 
beautiful  vision  fled.  The  vision  fled,  but  not  its  beneficent  effect.  Charmed, 
strengthened,  and  elevated,  she  knew  not  wherefore,  except  through  the 
influence  of  her  dream,  she  arose  and  made  her  simple  morning  toilet — a 
plain  black  bombazine  dress,  and  black  crape  collar.  Her  rich  and  abundant 
black  hair,  worn  in  plain  bands,  was  her  only  head-dress.  By  the  time  she 
had  completed  her  toilet,  which,  simple  as  it  was,  occupied  her  longer  than 
usual,  for  she  was  quite  unaccustomed  to  waiting  upon  herself,  there  came  a 
gentle  rap  at  the  chamber  door,  and  to  her  "  Come  in,"  entered  the  little 
maid. 

"Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  I  thought  you  would  want  me  to  as>ist 
you,"  said  Lizzy  ;  adding,  "  breakfast  is  quite  ready." 

"Show  me  the  way,  then,  child,"  said  Miss  Elmer. 


EMMA    D.   E.   X.     SOUTHWORTH.  229 

The  maid  conducted  our  heroine  to  a  small  sitting-room  adjoining  the 
school-room,  where  a  table  was  laid  for  the  morning  meal. 

"The  young  ladies  and  their  governess  take  their  meals  here,  ma'am,  if 
you  please." 

"And  where  are  the  young  ladies?" 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Rachel  will  bring  them  directly." 

And  even  as  the  maid  spoke,  a  respectable,  middle-aged  matron  entered, 
leading  two  dark-eyed  little  girls,  of  about  ten  and  twelve-  years,  by  the  hand, 
whom  she  presented  to  the  governess  as  Miss  Lester  and  Miss  Lucy  Lester, 
adding : 

"  Now,  my  dears,  this  lady  is  your  teacher.  You  will  be  very  good,  and 
not  plague  her  as  much  as  you  did  Miss  Primrose." 

"But  I  hated  Miss  Primrose,  nurse,  and  I  shall  hate  this  one,  too;  I  know 
I  shall,"  said  the  elder  child. 

"  For  shame,  Miss  Lester  !  Go  and  speak  to  your  governess,  as  a  young 
lady  should,"  said  the  nurse. 

The  children  drew  back,  frowning  and  sulky  ;  but  Laura  advanced  toward 
them  with  outstretched  hands,  saying : 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  dears,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  like  to 
stay  with  me." 

Her  voice  was  so  sweet,  and  her  look  so  gracious  and  benignant,  that  the 
children  readily  met  her  offered  hands,  and  smiles  broke  through  their  sulky 
faces,  like  sunshine  through  the  clouds. 

The  elder  one  looked  up  shily  into  her  fare,  ami  said  : 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  said  anything  to  offend  you,  ma'am  ;  but  Miss  Prim- 
rose was  such  a  plague !     But  I  will  please  you  !" 

"  I  hope  so;  and  now  shall  we  go  to  breakfast?"  said  Laura,  leading  the 
little  girl  to  the  table. 

The  nurse  had  left  the  school-room,  and  now  returned  leading  in  a  little 
boy  about  eleven  years  old,  saying : 

"  And  here  is  Master  Percy,  if  you  please,  ma'am.  He  is  to  be  under 
your  charge  until  his  tutor  arrives." 

Once  more  Laura  arose  to  meet  the  lad ;  a  fine,  handsome,  dark-eyed, 
frank-looking  hoy,  who  returned  her  cordial  greeting  with  a  look  of  real 
admiration,  saying : 

"  I  am  a  great  boy  to  be  in  a  lady's  school-room,  Miss  Elmer :  but  you 
will  find  me  not  at  all  unmanageable." 

"  Of  that  I  am  quite  sure,"  replied  the  governess. 


230  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  boy  joined  the  circle  at  the  breakfast-table,  where  the  children  broke 
into  a  conversation,  more  remarkable  for  vivacity  than  for  propriety. 

Laura  looked  from  one  to  another  of  her  pupils,  thinking  within  her- 
self: 

"  Providence  never  intended  me  for  a  governess,  for  I  feel  not  the  slight- 
est disposition  toward  curbing  these  children's  fine  spirits  or  checking  their 
free  conversation." 

When  breakfast  was  over,  Miss  Elmer  took  her  pupils  into  the  school- 
room, and  entered  into  a  preliminary  examination  of  their  progress  in  their 
various  studies.  This  occupied  her  the  whole  forenoon,  and  it  was  near  two 
o'clock  when  a  servant  knocked  at  the  door,  and  being  admitted,  brought 
the  compliments  of  Lady  Lester,  with  a  request  that  Miss  Elmer  would  come 
immediately  to  her  ladyship's  dressing-room. 

With  a  mournful  smile  given  to  the  memory  of  the  past,  when  as  Baroness 
Etheridge,  she  herself  received  dependents  in  her  own  dressing-room,  Laura 
Elmer  arose,  and  attended  by  the  footman,  who  showed  her  the  war. 
descended  to  the  second  floor,  upon  which  was  situated  the  private  apart- 
ments of  Lady  Lester.  Laura  was  shown  into  a  spacious  dressing-room, 
with  hangings  of  blue  satin,  and  otherwise  splendidly  furnished,  the  wall- 
being  adorned  with  the  choicest  paintings,  and  the  niches  filled  with  tin- 
rarest  statues,  all  original  or  copies  of  old  masters.  Many  bouquets  of 
the  rarest  exotics  diffused  a  rich  fragrance  through  the  air.  In  the  midst 
of  this  room  stood  a  large  Psyche  mirror,  and  before  it,  in  the  softest  of 
easy-chairs,  reclined  a  fair,  statuesque  woman,  arrayed  in  a  graceful  white 
dressing-gown  of  Indian  muslin.  At  her  side  stood  a  small  rosewood 
table,  with  a  breakfast-service  of  gold  plate,  upon  which  stood  the 
remains  of  a  dainty  breakfast.  At  the  back  of  her  ladyship's  chair  stood 
her  French  maid,  engaged  in  combing  out  the  long,  luxuriant,  light  hair  of 
her  mistress. 

The  first  thought  of  Laura  Elmer  on  entering  the  room,  was : 

"  Surely  this  young,  fair,  inane-looking  woman,  cannot  be  the  mother  of 
those  very  vivacious  and  beautiful  little  brunettes  in  the  school-room.  She 
must  be  their  step-mother,  and  the  baronet's  second  wife." 

"  Jeanette,  tell  the  young  person  to  come  around  here,  where  I  can  see 
her  without  having  to  turn  my  head,"  said  her  ladyship,  addressing  her 
femme  de  chambre. 

Laura  smilingly  advanced,  and  stood  as  she  was  desired,  immediately 
before  Lady  Lester. 


EMMA    D.   E.   N,   SOUTHWORTH.  231 

"  You  are  the  new  governess  that  Sir  Vincent  engaged !"  she  inquired, 
without  taking  the  trouble  to  lift  her  languid,  snowy  eyelids. 
"Yes,  madam,"  replied  Laura. 
"  Your  name  is  Miss  Elmer !" 
"  It  is,  madam." 

"  "Well,  Miss  Elmer,  Sir  Vincent  desired  me  to  see  you  this  morning, 
though  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  why,"  drawled  her  ladyship  languidly. 

"  Perhaps,  madam,  the  baronet  wished  me  to  receive  your  instructions  as 
to  the  best  method  of  managing  roy  pupils,"  suggested  Laura. 

'•  <  )li,  nurse  Jones  could  tell  you  how  to  manage  much  better  than  I 
could.     She  understands  their  dispositions." 

"  It.  is  probable,  then,  that  Sir  Vincent  wished  me  to  receive  your  lady- 
ship's directions  concerning  the  course  of  studies  to  be  pursued  by  the  young 
ladies  .'" 

"  Oh,  then,  he  should  have  sent  for  you  to  the  library,  talked  with  you 
himself,  for  he  is  interested  in  all  those  matters,  which  only  bore  me." 

All  this  time  Laura  Elmer  had  stood  with  her  stately  form  drawn  up,  and 
her  large,  dark,  starry  eyes  looking  steadily  down  upon  the  fair  inanity 
before  her. 

"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  conceive  why  Sir  Vincent  should  wish  me  to  see 
you,"   said   her   ladyship,   in  a  tone  of   vexation,   and   then,  for   the  first 
time,  raising  her  languid  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  governess,  she  asked  : 
"  Can  you  suggest  anything  else?" 

Then  seeing,  for  the  first  time,  that  queenly  form,  and  meeting,  for  the 
first  time,  that  queenly  spirit  shining  through  the  great,  calm,  luminous  eyes, 
she  instinctively  bowed  before  it,  and  involuntary  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Elmer,  for  having  kept  you  standing  so  long. 
Pray  take  a  seat." 

"  I  thank  you,  madam,  but  if  your  ladyship  has  really  no  commands  for 
me,  I  will  ask  your  permission  to  return  to  my  charge." 

"  I   really  do  not  know  that  I  have   anything  to  suggest  to  you,  Miss 
Elmer.     Yet  now  I  think  of  it,  I  wish  you  to  tell  me,  do  they  make  you 
comfortable  ?     I  leave  all  these  things  to  Jones." 
"  Quite  comfortable,  I  thank  you,  madam." 

"  If  you  find  there  is  anything  that  you  require  for  your  comfort  or  your 
happiness,  let  .Tones  know  ;  and  if  she  neglects  your  orders,  inform  Sir  Vin- 
cent. He  has  more  energy  than  I  have,  and  relieves  me  of  all  that  sort  of 
trouble." 


232  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  I  thauk  your  ladyship,"  Laura  said.  "  There  is  nothing  I  require  for 
my  comfort ;  and,  for  my  happiness,  I  fear  it  would  he  unjust  to  compel 
poor  Jones  to  provide  for  that."  she  added,  mentally. 

Then  bidding  her  ladyship  good  morning,  she  retired  from  her  presence. 

In  the  outer  hall,  she  found  herself  waylaid  by  another  footman,  with 
Sir  Vincent's  respects  to  her,  and  a  request  that  she  would  favor  him  with  a 
few  moments'  conversation  in  the  library. 

Again  Laura  smiled  to  herself,  thinking : 

"  If  the  baronet  is  no  more  alive  to  his  parental  duties  than  her  ladyship, 
this  interview  will  be  a  mere  form." 

She  was  shown  into  the  richly-furnished  library,  filled  with  the  treasures 
of  literature,  science  and  art  of  two  centuries  of  accumulation,  and  lighted 
hy  one  tall,  Gothic  window  of  stained  glass,  that  diffused  "  a  dim,  religious 
light  "  throughout  the  vast  room.  In  a  rich,  antique  chair,  beside  a  writing- 
table,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  sat  a  tall,  stout,  very  handsome  man,  aged 
about  forty-five.  Regular  and  well-chiselled  features,  dark  grey  eyes,  heavy 
black  eyebrows,  a  large,  well-formed  nose,  and  a  full,  handsome  mouth, 
were  all  framed  in  by  a  luxuriant  growth  of  shining  black  hair  and  whiskers. 

On  seeing  Miss  Elmer,  he  arose  with  a  stately  courtesy,  and  placed  a 
chair  lor  her,  saying,  as  be  handed  her  to  her  seat: 

"  I  requested  the  favor  of  your  company  here,  Miss  Elmer,  that  I  might 
consult  with  you  upon  the  subject  of  your  new  pupils." 

Laura  bowed  and  awaited  his  further  speech. 

"  You  have,  I  presume,  just  left  Lady  Lester?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Vincent." 

"  The  delicate  constitution,  and  the  numerous  social  responsibilities  of 
her  ladyship,  prevent  her  from  giving  that  attention  to  her  children  that  she 
would  otherwise." 

The  baronet  paused.     He  seemed  anxious  to  defend  his  wife's  indifference 
to  her  children,  yet  unable  to  do  so  with  truth.     At  length  he  said : 
"  You  have  seen  your  future  pupils?" 

"  I  have  seen  them." 

"I  hope,  that  notwithstanding  their  very  neglected  condition,  you  find 
them  not  unpromising  subjects?" 

"  Decidedly  not.  They  seem  to  me  to  be  unusually  gifted,  though  some- 
what undisciplined,"  said  Laura,  with  a  smile,  adding,  "  however,  I  should 
have  informed  you,  sir,  that  I  have  little  experience  in  children,  never  hav- 
ing filled  the  situation  of  governess  before." 


EMMA    D.   E.    N.   SOUTH  WORTH.  233 

The  baronet  looked  up  in  surprise,  then  drawing  toward  him  an  open 
letter  that  lay  on  the  table,  and  referring  to  it,  he  said : 

"  Ah !  yes,  Dr.  Seymour  has  written  '  that  unforeseen  reverses  have 
placed  Miss  Elmer  under  the  necessity  of  seeking  a  situation  in  life  for  which 
she  was  not  brought  up,  yet,  for  which  her  moral  and  intellectual  qualifica- 
tions eminently  fit  her.'  I  must  condole  with  your  misfortunes,  and  at  the 
same  time  I  congratulate  myself  and  my  children,  Miss  Elmer." 

Laura  bowed,  and  remained  silent. 

The  baronet  then  went  over  the  list  of  studies  that  he  wished  his  children 
to  pursue,  and  in  conclusion,  said  : 

"  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  look  into  your  school-room  sometimes, 
Miss  Elmer,  to  aid  you  by  such  counsels  as  my  somewhat  longer  and  more 
intimate  acquaintance  with  your  pupils  might  suggest,"  said  the  baronet, 
smilling. 

"  My  inexperience  will  thank  you,  sir." 

And  seeing  that  the  interview  was  closed,  she  was  about  to  rise,  when 
the  door  swung  slowly  open,  and  a  figure  glided  in  that  immediately  arrested 
her  attention. 

It  was  that  of  a  young  woman  of  about  twenty  years  of  age,  who  would 
have  been  beautiful  but  for  the  deathly  pallor  of  her  thin  face,  that  looked 
still  more  ghastly  white  in  contrast  with  the  raven  blackness  of  her  hair, 
eyebrows,  and  large,  wild  eyes,  and  her  dress  of  deep  mourning. 

The  baronet  started,  changed  countenance,  and  arose  in  haste  and  agita- 
tion, and  advanced  to  meet  her. 

But  she  glided  toward  him,  extending  her  thin,  white  arms,  clasping  her 
transparent  hands,  and  fixing  her  wild,  black  eyes  in  an  agony  of  supplica- 
tion upon  his  face. 

"  Helen,  why  are  you  here  ?  What  is  this  ?"  he  inquired,  in  a  deep  and 
smothered  voice,  as  he  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  unresisting  from  the 
room. 

Feeling  it  to  be  impossible  to  follow  them,  Laura  Elmer  retained  her  seat 
for  a  few  moments,  at  the  end  of  which  time  the  baronet  reentered  the 
library  in  a  state  of  agitation  almost  frightful  to  behold.  The  veins  of  his 
forehead  were  swollen  out  like  blue  cords,  his  nostrils  were  dilated  and 
quivering,  his  lips  grimly  clenched,  his  cheeks  highly  flushed,  his  dark  eyes 
contracted  and  glittering,  his  large  frame  shaking.  He  evidently  struggled 
to  suppress  the  exhibition  of  his  emotions  as  he  resumed  his  seat,  and,  trem- 
bling, dropped  his  face  upon  his  hands. 


234  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Laura  Elmer  felt  painfully  the  awkwardness  of  her  position.  It  was 
impossible  to  speak  to  him,  and  nearly  equally  impossible  to  withdraw  with- 
out doing  so,  while  it  seemed  indelicate  to  remain  and  witness  the  strong 
emotions  that  he  so  evidently  tried  to  conceal. 

At  length,  seeing  him  deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  feelings,  she  softly 
arose,  with  the  intention  of  gliding  from  the  room,  when  the  baronet,  some- 
how perceiving  her  purpose,  abruptly  started  forward,  saying,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Miss  Elmer,"  opened  the  door,  and  courteously  held  it  open  until  she 
passed  out. 

Laura  Elmer  retraced  her  steps  to  the  school-room. 

As  -he  entered  she  was  warmly  greeted  by  the  smiles  of  her  young 
charges,  who  assured  her  that  they  had  conscientiously  occupied  the  time  of 
her  absence  in  devotion  to  their  studies. 

"  Not  disinterested  attention,  I  assure,  you,  Miss  Elmer,  as  we  remember 
the  old  condition  of,  '  no  lessons  in  the  school-room,  no  drive  out  in  the 
park,'  "  said  Miss  Lester. 

Laura  looked  up  inquiringly,  and  learned  from  the  explanation  that 
ensued,  that  the  governess  was  always  expected  to  take  her  pupils  for  a  daily 
afternoon  drive  in  tin-  park,  and  that  they  were  now  quite  ready  to  recite 
their  lessons  and  prepare  for  their  airing. 

Laura  Elmer  felt  no  sort  of  objection  to  this  arrangement,  and  as  soon, 
therefore,  as  the  lessons  were  faithfully  dispatched,  the  young  ladies'  carriage 
was  ordered,  and  they  drove  out. 

The  park  was,  as  usual  at  this  hour  of  the  day,  filled  with  a  brilliant 
crowd  in  open  carriages,  of  every  description,  intermingled  with  gay  and 
noble  equestrian  figures.  Laura  Elmer  enjoyed  her  drive  through  the  park 
even  more  than  her  pupils  did,  since  to  her  the  scene  was  as  new  as  it  was 
interesting. 

Presently — 

"  There  is  Ruthven,"  exclaimed  Miss  Lester,  as  a  young  gentleman, 
mounted  on  a  spirited  horse,  rode  up  to  the  side  of  the  carriage,  and,  lifting 
his  hat,  said : 

"  Well,  young  ladies,  I  hope  you  are  enjoying  your  drive."' 

'•Excellent  well.  Miss  Elmer,  this  is  our  elder  brother,  Ruthven,"  said 
Miss  Lester. 

The  young  gentleman,  smiling  at  this  very  informal  presentation,  bowed, 
.aid  hoped  Miss  Elmer  was  well,  and  not  too  much  incommoded  by  his  very 
unmanageable  sisters. 


EMMA    D.   E.   N.   SOUTHWORTH.  235 

Miss  Elmer  reassured  Mr.  Lester  upon  that  point,  and,  in  doing  so,  for 
the  first  time  looked  up  at  liim. 

He  was  a  fine-looking  young  man,  very  much  like  his  father,  having  the 
same  tall  and  well-proportioned  frame,  though  much  less  stout  than  that  of 
the  baronet ;  and  the  same  dark  eyes,  and  heavy  eyebrows,  and  regular  fea- 
tures, surrounded  by  jet-black  hair  and  whiskers,  though  his  face  was  less 
full,  and  his  countenance  less  mature,  than  that  of  the  elder  man.  He  rode 
beside  the  carriage,  conversing  gaily  with  his  sisters,  for  some  time,  and  then 
suddenly  inquired: 

"  Is  her  ladyship  out  to-day  ?" 

''I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  seen  mamma  for  a  week,"  replied 
Miss  Lester. 

"  And  poor  Helen  ?"  inquired  the  young  man,  lowering  his  voice. 

"Hush!  for  mercy's  sake !  you  quite  frighten  me,"  replied  Ms  sister,  in 
the  same  low  tone,  and  with  changing  cheek,  and  trembling  voice. 

The  young  man  sighed  deeply,  and  murmuring,  inaudibly, 

"  Her  name  was  banished  from  each  ear, 
Like  words  of  wantonness  and  fear," 

turned  and  rode  sadly  away. 

A  strange,  terrified  silence  fell  upon  the  little  party,  which  lasted  until 
they  returned  home.  After  an  early  tea  and  supper,  Laura  Elmer  retired  to 
bed.     And  thus  ended  the  first  day  of  her  new  phase  of  life. 


THE  HAUNTED  HOMESTEAD. 

I  could  not  sleep  !  I  seldom  can  the  first  night  in  a  strange  house,  and 
this  was — such  a  house  !  I  felt  quite  alone — as  much  alone  as  if  the  heavy 
sleepers  in  the  next  bed  were  a  thousand  miles  away,  for  farther  still  in 
spirit  were  they.  I  thought  of  the  isolated  situation  of  the  house  we  were 
in ;  of  the  crimes,  real  or  reputed,  that  had  stained  its  hearth-stone ;  of  the 
superstitious  terror  attaching  to  the  haunted  place ;  of  the  hard  facts  that 
three  several  families,  not  reputed  less  wise  or  less  brave  than  their  neigh- 
bors, had  been  driven  from  the  spot  by  supernatural  disturbance  as  yet  unex- 
plained; of  the  coincidence  that  this  dreary  night  was  the  ghostly  Hallow 
Eve;  then  of  the  superstition  that  spirits,  when  they  wish  to  appear  to  only 


236  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

one  in  a  room,  have  the  power  of  casting  all  others  into  a  profound  sleep, 
from  which  the  haunted  one  cannot  awake  them,  and  of  isolating  their  victim 
from  all  the  natural  world — even  from  the  very  hed-fellow  by  their  side. 
The  room  was  very  dark  and  still — solid  blackness  and  dead  silence.  It 
oppressed  me  like  a  nightmare.  At  last,  when  my  senses  grew  accustomed 
to  the  scenes  by  straining  my  eyes,  I  could  dimly  perceive  beyond  the  foot  of 
my  bed,  the  segment  of  a  circle  formed  by  the  fan-light  window,  that  now 
only  seemed  a  thinner  darkness ;  and  by  straining  my  ears,  I  could  faintly 
hear  the  stealthy  fall  of  the  drizzling  rain.  It  was  almost  worse  than  the 
first  total  silence  and  darkness ;  for  it  kept  my  nerves  on  a  strange  qui  vive 
of  attention.  Presently  this  was  over  too.  The  muffled  sound  of  the  drizzling 
rain  ceased.  Yet  darker  clouds  must  have  lowered  over  the  earth,  for  the 
faint  outline  of  the  fan-light  window  was  no  longer  visible.  All  was  once 
more  black  darkness  and  intense  silence,  and  again  I  felt  oppressed  almost  to 
suffocation — welcome  now  would  have  been  the  faint  fall  of  the  fine  rain,  or 
the  dim  outline  of  the  window.  I  strained  my  senses  in  vain,  no  sight  or 
sound  responded.  I  felt  the  silence  and  the  darkness  settling  like  the  clods 
of  the  ground  upon  my  breast. 

Hoo-oo-o-o — /  went  something. 

Hark !  what  was  that  ?  I  thought,  starting. 

Hoo-oo-o-o — / 

Oh!  the  wailing  voice  of  some  low,  wandering  wind,  I  concluded. 

Whir-irr-rr-r-r — / 

Yes !  the  wind  is  rising,  but  how  like  a  lost  spirit  it  wails. 

Uvr-rr-rr-r-r-r — / 

My  Lord !  it's  not  the  wind !     "What  is  it  ?     Great  Heavens ! 

JJrr-rr-rr-rr-r-r-r — / 

I  started  up  in  a  sitting  posture,  and  bathed  in  a  cold  perspiration, 
remained  listening,  my  hair  bristling  with  terror. 

Urr-rr-rr-rr-r-r-r — il  Ha — ha — ha  /" 

I  could  bear  no  more ! — springing  out,  I  called — 

"  Grandmother !     Grandmother !" 

'■What's  the  matter?  Why,  what  ails  the  child?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Hawkins. 

"Oh!  listen!  listen!" 

"Listen  to  what? — you  are  dreaming!" 

"Dreaming,  am  I?     Oh!  wait!     Listen" 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r — "  Ha  ! — ha  ! — ha  /" 


EMMA    D.   E.   N.   SOUTHWORTH.  237 

It  was,  as  plainly  as  I  ever  heard,  the  sound  of  the  rolling  of  a  hall,  fol- 
lowed hy  a  peal  of  demoniac  laughter. 

I  turned  on  Mrs.  Hawkins  an  appalled  look. 

She  was  surprised  but  self-possessed,  and  evidently  bent  on  calmly  listen- 
ing and  investigating.  She  sat  straight  up  in  bed  with  a  strong,  concentrated 
attention  to  the  sounds.     They  came  again — 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-e — rattle-te-bang ! — UA  ten  strike  at  last! — Cfs  a  dead 
shot /" 

"  A  dead  shot  /" 

"A  dead  shot!"  was  echoed  all  around. 

Grandmother  calmly  threw  the  quilts  off  her,  stepped  out  of  bed,  and 
began  to  dress  herself. 

"  Strike  a  light,  Madeline,"  she  said. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  grandmother  ?" 

"Dress  myself  and  examine  the  premises." 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r — "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  /"  sounded  once  more  the  demoniac  noise 
and  laughter. 

The  match-box  nearly  dropped  from  my  shaking  hands,  but  I  struck  the 
light. 

The  sudden  flash  awoke  Alice  just  as  another  sonorous  roll  of  the  ball, 
and  fall  of  the  pins,  and  peal  of  demon  laughter,  sounded  hollowly  around 
us. 

"  Heaven  and  earth !  what  is  that  ?"  she  exclaimed,  starting  up. 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is,  Alice?"  said  I. 

"  My  Lord !  my  Lord ! — it  is  the  phantoms  of  the  murderer  and  the  mur- 
dered playing  over  again  their  last  game!"  cried  the  girl,  in  an  agony  of 
terror. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  distinct  knocking  was  heard  at  the  little  door  at 
the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

Alice  screamed. 

I  held  my  breath. 

The  knocking  was  repeated. 

"Who  is  there?"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  going  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

No  answer;  but  the  knocking  was  repeated  ;  and  then  a  frightened,  plain- 
tive voice,  crying  : 

"  Ole  mistess — ole  mistess — oh,  do,  for  the  Lord  sake,  let  me  in,  chile .' 
the  hair's  almos'  turn  grey  on  my  head." 

"Is that  you,  Gassy?" 


238  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  Yes  honey — yes,  what  the  ghoses  has  left  o'  me,"  replied  the  poor 
creature,  in  a  dying  voice. 

Grandmother  went  down  the  stairs  and  opened  the  door  at  the  foot,  and 
Cassy  came  tumbling  up  into  the  room  after  her.  She  was  absolutely  ashen 
grey  with  terror,  and  her  limbs  shook  so  that  she  could  scarcely  stand. 

'•  Oh !  did  yon  hear— did  you  hear  all  the  ghoses  and  devils  playing  nine- 
pins together  in  our  very  house?"  she  gasped,  dropping  into  a  chair. 

As  if  in  answer  to  her  question,  once  more  the  phantom  ball  rolled  in 
detonating  thunder,  the  pins  fell  with  a  loud,  rattling  sound,  followed  by  a 
hollow  shout  of  triumph  ! 

Cassy  fell  on  her  knees,  and  crossed  herself  devoutly. 

Alice  clung  in  terror  to  her  grandmother. 

I  felt  that  the  time  to  play  the  heroine  was  come,  and  strove  to  exhibit 
self-possession  and  courage. 

"  Take  up  the  candle,  Cassy,  and  lead  the  way  downstairs.  We  must  go 
and  search  the  house,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

"Oh,  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't!  don't,  ole  mistess,  honey!  Don't  be 
a  temptin'  o'  Providence !  Leave  the  ghosts  alone  and  stay  here,  and  fasten 
the  door." 

"  I  shall  search  the  house  and  grounds,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  in  a  peremp- 
tory voice.     "  Therefore,  take  up  the  light  and  go  before  me." 

"Oh!  for  de  Lord's  love,  ole  mistess!  ef  we  mus1  go,  you  go  first,  you 
go  first ;  I  dar'n't ;  I's  such  a  sinner,  /  is !"  cried  Cassy,  wringing  her  hands 
in  an  agony  of  terror. 

Urr-rrr-rr-r-r-r-rattle-te-hang-ang  ! 

"  A  ten  strike  !    Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  /"  again  sounded  the  revels. 

"  Hooley  St.  Bridget,  pray  for  us  !  Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace  !  Don't  go, 
ole  mistess,  honey!  Oh,  stay  where  you  is  in  safety!"  pleaded  the  old 
woman,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  Nonsense !  Hold  your  tongue,  Cassy.  If  ever  there  was  a  woman 
plagued  with  a  set  of  cowardly  simpletons,  it  is  myself.  Let  go  my  skirts 
this  moment,  Alice !  Be  silent,  every  one  of  you,  and  follow  me  as  softly  as 
possible,"  said  my  grandmother,  in  a  low,  stern  voice,  as  she  took  up  the 
candle,  and  led  the  way  downstairs.  We  followed  at  this  order — Cassy 
holding  on  to  her  mistress'  skirts,  Alice  holding  to  Cassy's,  and  I  bringing 
up  the  rear,  with  carnal  weapons  in  one  hand  and  spiritual  ones  in  the  other 
— that  is  to  say,  with  a  big  ruler  and  a  prayer-book. 

A  chill,  damp  air  met  us  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs — nothing  else. 


EMMA    D.   E.   N.   SOUTHWORTH.  239 

The  front  hall  was  empty  and  bleak.  We  tried  the  doors,  and  found  them 
as  secure  as  we  had  left  them,  with  the  exception  of  the  parlor  door,  by 
which  Oassy  had  entered,  and  which  was  on  the  latch.  Mrs.  Hawkins  puUed 
it  to  and  locked  it,  saying,  in  a  low  voice,  that  .she  wished,  while  examining 
each  room,  to  keep  all  the  rest  locked,  that  there  might  be  no  escape  for  any 
one  concealed  in  the  house. 

First  we  went  into  the  right-hand  bed-room,  opening  from  the  hall.  It 
was  secure,  vacant  and  bleak.     We  locked  the  door  and  drew  out  the  key. 

Next  we  looked  into  the  left-hand  bed-room  :  it  was  in  precisely  the  Bame 
condition.     We  made  it  fast  in  the  same  manner. 

Then  we  opened  and  entered  the  parlor.  This  was  the  bleakest  room  of 
any  :  large,  square,  lofty,  totally  bare,  cold  and  damp. 

••  Nothing  here,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  looking  around. 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r-rattle-te-bang-ang-anff !  the  phantom  ball  rolled,  and 
scattered  the  nine-pins. 

"Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha.n'  shouted  the  hollow,  ghostly  voices. 

They  seemed  to  be  in  the  very  room  with  us,  reverberating  in  the  very 
air  we  breathed,  echoing  from  the  four  walls  around,  and  from  the  ceiling 
above  us! 

"Jesu  Mary!"  cried  Cassy,  dropping  on  her  knees. 

'•Oh!  oh!  oh!"  gasped  Alice,  clinging  to  me. 

"This  is  very  unaccountable,"  said  our  grandmother,  looking  all  around 
the  room,  where  nothing  but  bare  walls  and  bare  boards  met  the  view. 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  Mrs. 
Hawkins  said : 

"  Come  !  let  us  look  into  the  dining-room,  and  then  call  up  Hector  to 
assist  us  in  searching  the  grounds." 

We  passed  on  into  the  next  room,  and  locked  the  door  behind  us,  as  we 
had  locked  every  one  in  our  tour  through  the  house.  That  room  was  closely 
packed  with  furniture,  over  which  we  had  to  clamber  our  passage. 

While  we  were  doing  so,  once  again  sounded  the  detonating  roll  of  the 
ball,  the  rattling  scattering  of  the  pins,  and  the  hollow  peals  of  laughter,  all 
echoing  around  and  around  us,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  rooms. 

Alice  again  seized  her  grandmother. 

Cissy  fell  over  a  stack  of  wash-tubs,  and  called  on  all  the  saints  to  help 
her. 

Mrs.  Hawkins  ordered  Alice  to  let  her  go,  and  Cassy  to  get  up,  and  me 
to  move  on. 


240  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

She  was  obeyed.  A  great  general  was  our  grandmother,  and  we  all 
knew  it ! 

We  left  the  dining-room,  locking  the  last  door  behind  us.  We  dodged 
the  dark,  blind  alley,  sheltered  the  candle  from  the  drizzling  mist,  and  went 
around  into  the  kitchen  and  called  Hector  from  above. 

The  old  man  answered,  and  soon  came  toddling  down  the  narrow  stairs. 

'■  Hector,  have  you  heard  those  noises?"  inquired  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

"  The  Lord  between  us  and  evil !     I've  heern,  mistess !  I've  heern !" 

"  What  do  you  suppose  it  is  ?" 

A  dubious,  solemn  shake  of  the  head  was  the  old  man's  only  reply. 

"Can't  you  speak,  Hector?  How  do  you  account  for  those  noises? 
Come,  no  mysteries ;  answer  if  you  can ;  what  are  they  ?" 

"  Dead  people  /"  groaned  the  old  man,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Pooh!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

But  I  could  see  that  even  the  was  paler  than  usual. 

" Come,  Hector!  There  is  no  one  in  the  house,  that  is  certain.  And  no 
one  can  get  into  it  while  we  are  gone,  because  it  is  locked  up.  Now,  fasten 
up  the  kitchen,  and  let  us  go  and  search  the  grounds,  and  unkennel  any 
interlopers  that  may  be  lurking  there." 

We  came  out  and  secured  the  kitchen  door,  and  began  our  tour  of  the 
garden. 

As  we  left  the  door,  our  watch-dog  ran  out  to  join  us. 

This  circumstance,  while  it  greatly  assisted  us  in  our  search,  very  much 
increased  the  perplexity  of  our  minds.  Had  the  dog  heard  the  noises  that 
had  disturbed  us,  and  if  so,  why  had  he  not  given  the  alarm  ? — or,  on  the 
other  hand,  were  dogs  insensible  to  supernatural  sights  and  sounds  ?  We 
could  not  tell,  but  we  were  glad  to  have  Fidelle  snuffing  and  trotting  along 
with  us,  confident  that  if  there  were  a  human  being  lurking  any  where  in  the 
garden,  he  would  smell  him  out.  So  we  went  up  one  grass-grown  walk  and 
down  another,  between  rows  of  gooseberry  bushes,  currant  bushes,  and  rasp- 
berry bushes,  all  damp  and  drippling  with  mist,  and  through  alleys  of  dwarf 
plum-trees,  and  all  along  the  hedges  of  evergreen  inside  the  brick  wall,  and 
past  the  iron  gate,  which  was  still  chained,  as  it  had  been  left,  and  then 
around  in  the  stable,  coach-house,  hen-house,  and  smoke-house,  each  of  which 
we  found  securely  locked,  and,  when  opened,  damp,  musty  and  vacant ;  and 
so  we  looked  over  every  foot  of  the  ground,  and  into  every  out-building, 
finding  all  safe  and  leaving  all  safe;  and  at  last,  without  having  discovered 
anything,  we  arrived  again  at  the  dining-room  door. 


EMMA    D.    E.    N.    SOUTHWORTH.  241 

We  all  entered,  locked  the  door  after  us,  clambered  over  the  piles  of  fur- 
niture, and  passed  on  into  the  parlor. 

The  parlor,  as  I  have  said,  was  as  yet  unfurnished,  damp  and  cold.  Yet 
there  we  paused  for  a  little  while  to  take  breath. 

"  There  is  nothing  concealed  in  the  garden,  and  nothing  in  the  house ; 
that  is  demonstrated.  These  strange  manifestations  must  admit  of  a  natural 
explanation  ;  but  I  confess  myself  at  a  loss  to  explain  them,"  said  Mrs.  Haw- 
kins. 

"  Oh,  ole  mistess,  'fess  it's  de  ghoses,  honey  !  'fess  it's  de  ghoses !  Me- 
morize how  nobody  was  ever  able  to  lib  in  dis  cussed  house!"  pleaded 
Cassy. 

"  Oh,  yes,  grandmother,  do  let's  sit  up  here  all  night  to-night,  and  move 
out  early  to-morrow  morning,"  entreated  Ally. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Madeline?"  inquired  my  grandmother. 

"  I  say,  brave  it  out !" 

"So  do  I,  my  girl !"  replied  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

"  Oh,  for  de  love  o'  de  Lord,  don't,  ole  mistess !  don't,  Miss  Maddy ! 
don't !  It's  a  temptin'  o'  Providence !  leave  de  'fernal  ole  place  to  de  ghoses, 
as  has  de  bes'  right  to  it!"  prayed  Cassy. 

"We'll  see  about  that!"  said  our  grandmother.  "But  come!  all  seems 
quiet  now  ;  we  will  go  to  bed,  and  investigate  further  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  ole  mistess,  honey,  I  knows  all  is  quiet  jest  now,  but  " 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!— Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho  !  ho!  ho!  ho! 
burst  a  peal  of  demoniac  laughter,  resounding  through  and  through  the 
room,  and  close  into  our  ears. 

"The  Lord  between  us  and  Satan!"  cried  Cassy,  dropping  the  candle, 
which  immediately  went  out  and  left  us  in  darkness. 

While,  peal  on  peal,  sounded  the  demoniac  laughter  around  us. 

Cassy  fell  on  her  knees,  and  began  praying — 

"St.  Mary  pray  for  us!  St.  Martha  pray  for  us!  all  ye  hooly  vargins 
and  widders  pray  for  us  lone  women !  St.  Peter  pray  for  us !  St.  Powl 
pray  for  us!  All  hooly  'postles  and  'vangellers  pray  for  us  poor  sinners! — 
Saint — Saint — Saint — Oh!  for  de  Lor's  sake,  Miss  Ally,  honey,  tell  me  de 
name  o'  that  hooly  Saint  as  met  a  ghose  riding  on  Balaam's  ass  and  knows 
how  it  feels!" 

"  It  was  Saul,  or  Samuel,  or  the  Witch  of  Endor,  I  forget  which,"  said 
Alice,  whose  knowledge  of  the  Old  Testament,  never  very  precise,  was 
frightened  out  of  her. 

16 


242  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

'•  St.  Saul,  St.  Samuel,  St.  Witehywinder  pray  for  us,  as  met  a  ghost  your- 
self and  knows  how  it  feels." 

And  still  while  Oassy  prayed  her  frantic  prayers,  and  poor  old  Hector 
told  his  heads,  and  Alice  trembled  and  clung  to  me,  the  demon  laughter 
resounded  around  and  around  us.  We  were  in  such  total  darkness  that  I 
had  not  seen  Mrs.  Hawkins  withdraw  herself  from  the  group,  nor  suspected 
her  absence  until  we  heard  her  firm,  cheery  voice  outside  near  the  dining- 
room  door,  saying, 

"What  can  anyone  think  of  this?  Come  here,  Hector!  Come  here, 
children  !" 

We  all  went,  expecting  some  deno&ment. 

Mrs.  Hawkins  telegraphed  to  us  to  be  perfectly  silent,  and  to  step  lightly. 
She  turned  the  angle  of  the  house,  and  walked  up  the  blind  alley  between 
the  back  of  the  house  and  the  back  of  the  kitchen  ;  when  she  had  got  about 
mid-way  of  the  walk,  she  stopped,  and  silently  pointed  to  the  rank  weeds 
and  bushes  that  grew  closely  under  the  wall  of  the  house. 

"  There!  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

We  looked,  and  at  first  could  see  nothing;  but,  on  a  closer  inspection, 
we  perceived  a  very  faint  glimmer,  a  mere  thread  of  red  light,  low  down 
among  the  bushes. 

We  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Hawkins  for  explanation. 

"  After  the  candle  fell  and  went  out,"  she  said,  "  I  slipped  out,  with  the 
intention  of  exploring  again,  and  this  time  alone,  and  in  darkness.  I  came 
up  this  blind  alley,  and  looking  sharply,  descried  that  glimmer  of  light. 
And  now  I  am  convinced  that  the  revellers,  human  or  ghostly,  are  below 
there,  in  that  old  disused  cellar  that  we  were  made  to  believe  was  nearly  full 
of  water,  and  required  to  be  drained.  Don't  be  agitated,  children !  take  it 
coolly,"  concluded  Mrs.  Hawkins,  stooping  down  to  put  aside  the  weeds  and 
bushes. 

Just  at  this  moment,  another  detonating  roll  of  the  ball,  and  scattering 
fall  of  the  pins,  and  peal  of  hollow  laughter,  resounded  from  below. 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r  rattle  hang-ang-ang  !  "Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  Ho! 
ho!  ho!  ho!    A  dead  shot!" 

"  Too  late,  young  gentlemen  !  Tour  fun  is  all  over !  Your  game  is  up ! 
You  are  discovered!  Come  forth!"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  who,  down  upon 
her  knees,  pulled  away  the  bushes,  turned  up  the  old  broken  and  moldy 
cellar  door,  and  discovered  the  scene  below. 

A  rudely  fitted  up  bowling  alley,  occupying  the  further  end  of  the  room, 


EMMA    D.   E.   N.    SOUTHWORTH.  243 

and  some  eight  or  ten  youths,  no  longer  engaged  in  rolling  halls,  hut  on  the 
contrary,  standing  in  various  attitudes  of  detected  culpability. 

"  Come  !  come  forth  !"  commanded  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

And  they  came,  climbing  up  the  rotten  and  moldering  steps,  and  the 
very  first  who  put  his  impudent  head  up  through  the  door  into  the  open  air 
was  Will  Rackaway ! 

"  Oh,  Will !"  exclaimed  Alice,  reproachfully. 

"  You  !  Will !"  questioned  Mrs.  Hawkins,  in  scandalized  astonishment. 

"  No !  the  ghost  of  O'Donnegan,"  replied  the  youth  in  a  sepulchral 
voice. 

"  Reprobate  !"  exclaimed  our  grandmother. 

"  Now,  indeed,  indeed,  I  was  only  taking  the  liberty  of  entertaining  my 
friends  in  my  kind  Aunt  Hawkins'  cellar.  Quite  right,  you  know !  Only 
don't  tell  father,  and  I'll  never  do  so  no  more!"  pleaded  Will,  with  mock 
humility. 

"  Dismiss  your  comrades,  sir !  and  come  into  the  house  !  I  shall 
send  for  your  father  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Mrs  Hawkins  in  a  stern 
voice. 

There  was  no  need  to  dismiss  the  intruders;  they  were  climbing  up 
the  dilapidated  steps  as  fast  as  they  could  come,  and  slinking  away  with 
averted  heads,  trying  to  conceal  their  faces,  which  Mrs.  Hawkins  did  not 
insist  upon  discovering.  When  they  were  all  gone,  Will  followed  us  into  the 
house. 

"  Now  then,  sir,  explain  your  conduct,"  ordered  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

And  Will,  with  an  air  of  mock  humility  and  deprecation,  obeyed. 

The  account  he  gave  was  briefly  this — himself  and  several  other  youths, 
sous  of  very  strict  parents,  who  proscribed  nine-pins  with  other  games,  had, 
out  of  some  old  timber  and  furniture,  left  of  O'Donnegan's  old  nine-pin 
alley,  that  had  been  taken  down  and  carried  away,  fitted  up  the  old  disused 
cellar  for  their  games.  They  had  played  there  recently,  every  night,  with  no 
other  intention  than  that  of  amusing  themselves,  and  of  keeping  their  game 
concealed— with  certainly  no  thought  of  enacting  a  ghostly  drama;  until  to 
their  astonishment,  they  gradually  learned  that  these  revels  were  mistaken 
for  ghostly  orgies,  and  had  given  the  house  its  unenviable  reputation  of  being 
haunted— a  joke  much  too  good  for  human  nature,  and  especially  for  hoys' 
human  nature  not  to  carry  out.  Everything  favored  their  concealment. 
Tlir  cellar  was  reputed  to  be  half  full  of  water,  and  was  long  disused,  and 
every  cellar-window,  except  the  narrow  hidden  one  that  they  had  turned 


244  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

into  a  door,  and  nailed  up.  Besides,  the  front  division  of  the  cellar  was 
really  two  feet  deep  in  water,  and  when  there  was  any  risk  of  discovery,  they 
had  a  means  of  letting  it  in  to  overflow  the  hack  division,  so  that  their 
rixtures  were  all  covered.  Thus  for  months  they  had  played  the  double 
game  of  nine-pins  and  of  a  ghostly  drama ! 


ROSA    VERTNER    JOHNSON. 

Mrs.  Johnson,  whose  original  name  was  Griffith,  is  a  native  ( 

of  Natchez,  Mississippi.  When  she  was  nine  months  old,  her 
mother  died,  leaving  her  to  the  charge  of  her  maternal  aunt, 
whose  child  she  became  by  adoption,  and  whose  name  she  re- 
ceived with  a  mother's  love  and  nurture. 

"  I  have  never,"  says  Mrs.  Johnson,  referring  to  Mrs.  Vert- 
ner,  "  known  the  misery  of  being  motherless,  as  she  has  fulfilled 
most  tenderly  and  unceasingly  a  fond  mother's  duty  toward  me." 

Mr.  Griffith,  the  father  of  our  poet,  was  a  gentleman  of  cul- 
tivated literary  taste  and  a  practised  and  graceful  writer  in  both 
prose  and  verse.  Many  of  his  Indian  stories — a  favorite  kind 
of  creation  with  him — were  copied  into  the  English  journals  of 
the  day  with  admiring  recognition.  He  died  in  1853,  just  as 
the  rare  gifts  of  his  daughter  were  opening  to  fame. 

Rosa  Yertner's  early  childhood  was  passed  at  "  Burlington," 
a  beautiful  country  seat,  near  Port  Gibson,  Mississippi,  and  the 
home  of  her  adopted  parents.  Her  fondness  for  this  place 
amounted  almost  to  a  passion.  "  Here,"  she  says,  "  I  learned 
to  think  and  feel."  And  here,  also,  she  began  to  give  poetical 
expression  to  thought  and  feeling.  She  prattled  in  rhyme  long 
before  she  could  write,  and  many  of  her  effusions,  recorded  from 
her  lips,  are  now  in  the  possession  of  her  mother.  Amid  the 
outside  natural  charms  of  "  Burlington,"  and  the  atmosphere  of 
refined  luxury  and  a  poet-father's  influence  within,  the  young 
Rosa  was  cradled  in  the  very  haunts  of  the  Muses;  the  Fpirit 
of  poetry  was  in-horn  and  bred. 


24G  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

When  she  was  ten  years  of  age,  her  parents,  with  an  eye  to 
her  best  interest,  sold  this  beautiful  home  and  removed  to  Ken- 
tucky, for  the  purpose  of  superintending  her  education.  The 
pang  which  this  removal  cost  the  child  Eosa,  and  the  sacredness 
with  which  the  woman  Eosa  still  holds  the  memory  of  that  for- 
saken ground,  is  "  bodied  forth  "  in  one  of  the  most  dewy  and 
fragrant  of  her  poems—"  My  Childhood's  Home." 

Miss  Vertner  was  educated  at  the  celebrated  Seminary  of 
Bishop  Smith,  then  at  Lexington.  At  the  age  of  seventeen,  she 
married  Claude  M.  Johnson,  a  gentleman  of  manly  character  and 
elegant  fortune.  Since  her  marriage,  she  lias,  until  recently, 
resided  alternately  in  Lexington,  Kentucky — the  present  abode 
of  her  adopted  parents — and  at  her  husband's  plantation  in 
Louisiana,  spending  the  winter  at  the  latter,  and  the  summer  in 
the  former  place.  Of  late,  however,  she  has  made  Lexington 
her  permanent  home. 

Mrs.  Johnson  is  the  mother  of  six  children,  two  of  whom 
have  passed  from  earth,  though  not  from  communion  with  her 
loving  spirit,  as  the  poem  entitled  "  Angel  Watchers "  most 
tenderly  and  tearfully  attests.  It  is  a  smile  and  tear  crystal- 
lized— the  purest  gem  in  her  literary  casket. 

In  1850,  Mrs.  Johnson  became  a  contributor  to  the  "  Louis- 
ville (Ky.)  Journal,"  under  the  name  of  "  Eosa."  Through  this 
medium  the  greater  number  of  her  poems  first  appeared ; 
although,  from  time  to  time,  she  has  contributed  also  to  the 
"  Home  Journal,"  and  the  principal  magazines  and  journals  of 
the  country. 

In  1857,  her  poems  were  published  in  a  handsome  volume, 
by  Messrs.  Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Boston,  and  elicited  from  the 
press  the  warmest  tributes  of  praise.  In  a  most  generous  notice 
of  this  collection,  the  editor  of  the  "  Louisville  Journal  "  says  : 

"  In  the  blooming  field  of  modem  poetry,  we  really  know 
not  where  to  look  for  productions  at  once  so  full  of  merit  ami 


ROSA-VERTNER    JOHNSON.  247 

so  free  from  defect ;  so  luxuriant  and  yet  so  pure.  The  genius 
of  the  writer  is  equally  stainless  and  exact.  As  regards  not 
only  the  moral,  but  the  literary  quality  of  her  productions,  she 
has  written  nothing  '  which,  dying,  she  could  wish  to  blot.'  " 

Subordinate  to  this  broader  characteristic,  but  more  striking 
to  the  superficial  eye,  are  the  marvellous  wealth  and  delicacy  of 
her  fancy.  The  fertility  of  her  conception  seems  positively 
exhaustless. 

Nor  is  her  genius  at  all  unequal  to  the  higher  walks  of 
thought  and  imagination,  as  witness  "  The  First  Eclipse,"  and 
"  The  Frozen  Ship."  Whenever  she  has  essayed  these  loftier 
paths,  she  has  trodden  them  with  signal  ease  and  success.  If 
her  muse  has  turned  more  frequently  and  kindly  to  lighter 
themes,  it  has  been  owing  mainly  to  the  genial  and  sunny  temper 
of  her  spirit,  not  to  any  lack  of  depth  or  energy. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  most  popular  and  fascinating  quality 
of  this  writer's  poetry  is  its  complete  harmony  with  herself. 
This  quality  is  obvious  even  to  a  cursory  reader,  who  has  never 
seen  her,  from  the  singular  vitality  and  freedom  which  pervade 
the  simplest  emanations  from  her  pen.  To  those  who  know 
her,  it  is  doubtless  the  most  resistless  charm  of  her  productions. 
Her  poetry  is  not  a  creation  so  much  as  a  revelation.  It  is  the 
simple  exhibition  of  the  riches  of  her  soul,  rather  than  the 
coining  of  her  subtlety. 

Since  the  publication  of  this  volume,  Mrs.  Johnson  has 
produced  many  poems,  in  which  are  apparent  not  only  the  best 
characteristics  of  her  former  writings,  but  a  new  depth  and 
fervor.  It  is  said,  also,  that  she  is  engaged  at  present  on  a 
romance  in  verse,  which  she  intends  to  make  the  chef-d'oeuvre 
of  a  new  volume. 

In  many  of  the  works  of  this  writer  we  see  glimpses  of  a  sub- 
stratum of  passionate  power,  which  has  never  yet  been  stirred. 
A  deep  fountain  was  troubled  at  the  death  of  her  children,  but 


24:8  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

troubled  by  an  angel ;  and  her  songs  only  grew  more  low  and 
tender — the  mother's  pang  lost  in  the  mother's  hope.  But  it  is 
evident  that  no  shaft  of  agony  has  yet  buried  itself  in  the 
intense  silences  of  her  nature.  No  rankling  thorn  quivers  in  her 
emotions — tips  her  words  with  arrowy  flame — breaks  the  silvery 
flow  of  her  rhythm  with  gusts  and  gleams  which  will  not  be 
controlled.  Yet  this  latent  force  is  revealed  in  the  body  and 
puise  of  her  writings. 

The  singular  poem  entitled  ''Hasheesh  Visions"  would 
seem  to  show  no  lack  of  impassioned  element ;  but,  if  it  be  nut 
the  direct  inspiration  of  the  drug  itself,  it  has  the  crazy  play  and 
prodigality  of  words  evolved  from  the  heights  of  brain,  and  not 
from  the  depths  of  feeling. 


HASHEESH  VISIONS. 

Fiery  fetters  fiercely  bound  me, 
Globes  of  golden  fire  rolled  round  me, 
Jets  of  violet-colored  flame 
From  ruby-crusted  mountains  came, 
And,  floating  upward,  wreathed  on  higb 
Like  gorgeous  serpents  through  the  sky, 
To  whose  rich  coils  the  stars  of  night 
Clung  and  became  like  scales  of  light ; 
A  crimson  sea  before  me  blushed, 
To  which  ten  thousand  rivers  rushed — 
Ten  thousand  rivers,  all  of  flame, 
And  as  they  hissing  onward  came, 
Their  burning  waters  seemed  to  pour 
Along  an  opalescent  shore, 
While,  in  that  red  deep,  far  away, 
A  myriad  opal  islands  lay. 
With  eager,  wistful  gaze  I  turned 
To  where  their  dazzling  splendors  burned  ; 


ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON.  249 

With  fearful  struggles,  stung  by  pain, 

I  rent  my  fiery  bonds  in  twain, 

And  madly  (when  my  limbs  were  free) 

Plunged  headlong  in  that  lurid  sea, 

Whose  red  and  seething  billows  seemed 

To  mock  me  as  they  hissed  and  screamed  ; 

While  tortured  thus,  scorched  to  the  bone, 

I  drifted  on  with  ceaseless  moan, 

Till,  near  those  opal  islands  cast, 

When  (dreaming  all  my  anguish  past) 

I  grasped  a  smooth  and  glittering  shore 

In  vain,  then  drifted  on  once  more ; 

On,  on,  till  countless  isles  were  past, 

And  then  a  boiling  wave  at  last 

Spurned,  flung  me  from  its  blazing  crest, 

To  seem  at  least  one  moment  blest, 

Upon  an  isle  which  seemed  to  be 

The  fairest  in  that  wondrous  sea ; 

But  on  its  cool  and  polished  shore 

My  agony  scarce  ceased  before 

This  beautiful  and  long-sought  goal, 

This  Eldorado  of  my  soul, 

For  which  I  yearned  with  wild  desire, 

Seemed  thronged  with  skeletons  of  fire, 

That  danced  around  me,  shrieked  my  name, 

And  scorched  me  with  their  tongues  of  flame, 

Till  (in  unutterable  pain) 

I  prayed  that  lava  sea  in  vain 

To  bear  me  from  a  haunted  land, 

To  save  me  from  that  demon  band, 

That  seized  me  with  a  fiendish  laugh, 

And  cups  of  fire  then  bade  me  quaff, 

Until  the  withered  flesh  all  peeled 

From  my  parched  bones,  and  left  revealed 

A  skeleton  like  theirs  !  a  shell, 

Red  as  the  hottest  flames  of  hell] 

Then  loud  we  laughed,  and  wide  and  far 

Rang  out  that  fiendish  laugh,  "  ha,  ha!'1 


0,50  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

In  every  wave  an  echo  seemed, 

Until  the  sea  with  laughter  screamed ; 

The  blazing  billows  leaped  on  high, 

And  roared  their  laughter  to  the  sky, 

Whose  star-scaled  serpents  from  afar 

Hissed  back  a  mocking  laugh,  "  ha,  ha!" 

We  tossed  our  naming  goblets  up, 

And  danced  and  laughed,  till  every  cup 

Was  drained,  and  still  though  wrung  with  pain, 

We  quaffed  and  danced  and  laughed  again, 

Till,  faint  with  agony,  a  chill 

Of  horror  seemed  my  frame  to  thrill, 

The  fire-fiends  left  me  doubly  curst 

Cold  !   freezing  !  yet  consumed  by  thirst. 

I  wore  a  form  of  flesh  again, 

And  cried  for  "water,"  but  in  vain; 

And  then  an  icy  slumber  fell 

Upon  me,  till  the  gushing  swell 

Of  mountain  torrents,  in  their  strife, 

Awakened  me  to  light  and  life — 

To  light  and  life,  for  now  I  stood 

Beside  a  cool,  deep-shaded  flood 

Upon  a  shore  so  passing  fair, 

Its  beauty  brightened  my  despair 

A  moment,  while  the  hope  was  nursed 

That  I  might  quench  my  frantic  thirst. 

Enchanting  pictures  !  bright  and  fine, 

Enamelled  on  my  heart  they  shine ; 

That  fresh  green  shore,  that  clear  deep  tide, 

Whose  waves  o'er  rocks  of  sapphire  glide, 

Until  at  last,  with  wildest  leap, 

Into  a  gulf  more  broad  and  deep 

Than  ten  Niagaras  swift  they  whirl 

O'er  crystal  spars  and  crags  of  pearl ! 

But  lo !  when  on  that  moss-grown  brink 

I  stooped  my  aching  head  to  drink, 

And  sinking  there  a  lotus-cup, 

Raised  it  in  trembling  gladness  up, 


ROSA    VERTNER    JOHNSON.  251 

My  parching  lips  gave  forth  a  groan 

To  find  the  water  turned  to  stone  ! 

A  chalice  heaped  with  sapphires  bright, 

To  mock  me  with  their  liquid  light, 

Jewels  a  king  might  proudly  wear, 

But  which  I  cursed  in  my  despair, 

And  then  with  bitter  anguish,  flung 

Back  to  the  tide  from  which  they  sprung. 

The  lotus  bloom  I  would  have  torn 

To  atoms,  but  (as  if  in  scorn, 

Of  my  fierce  rage,  by  some  weird  power) 

I  found  an  alabaster  flower, 

Whose  leaves  and  stem  with  matchless  sheen 

Of  emerald  seemed  superbly  green. 

I  climbed  along  the  crags  of  pearl, 

To  head  the  waters  in  their  whirl. 

But  when  I  bent  in  madness  down 

To  where  the  white  spray,  like  a  crown 

Of  glory  on  the  torrent  gleamed, 

(Though  o'er  my  brow  its  moisture  streamed,) 

With  lips  apart  that  longed  to  feel 

A  dewy  freshness  through  them  steal, 

Upon  my  parched  and  swollen  tongue 

A  shower  of  diamond  gems  was  flung. 

Oh  !  what  were  gems  to  one  who  yearned 

For  water-drops,  and  would  have  spurned 

Their  wealth,  to  sip  the  dew  that  sleeps 

Within  the  hair-bells'  azure  deeps  ? 

Upon  the  shore  again  I  rushed, 

Where  countless  fruits  in  beauty  blushed, 

Pomegranates,  rare  and  ripe,  and  one, 

Whose  rind  was  rifted  by  the  sun, 

Revealed  unto  my  ravished  sight 

The  crimson  pulp — Oh  !   what  delight 

I  felt,  as  quick,  with  throbbing  heart, 

I  tore  it  eagerly  apart, 

Expecting  then  the  fruity  seed 

With  red  and  luscious  juice  to  bleed. 


252  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Like  those,  which,  at  the  far  off  South, 

Distilled  their  sweetness  in  my  month, 

Long,  long  ago,  when  as  a  child, 

By  Hope  and  Love  and  Joy  beguiled, 

My  trusting  heart  had  never  grieved 

To  find  itself  at  last  deceived. 

But  in  that  strange  enchanted  rind 

No  liquid  sweetness  did  I  find, 

Which  (tempting  while  it  half  concealed) 

A  mass  of  rubies  now  revealed, 

Of  royal  rubies,  flashing  there 

To  mock,  and  madden  my  despair. 

I  plucked  an  orange,  when  behold ! 

Within  my  hand  it  turned  to  gold  ; 

And  when  from  loaded  vines  I  tore 

The  purple  grapes,  that  seemed  to  pour 

Their  honeyed  juices  on  the  ground, 

Clusters  of  amethysts  I  found. 

If  in  a  desert  I  had  been, 

Where  gushing  waters  are  not  seen, 

Nor  luscious  fruits  (to  tempt  in  vain), 

Less  terrible  had  been  the  pain 

Of  my  fierce  thirst ;  and  as  I  cried 

For  "  water,"  fair  forms  seemed  to  glide 

Beneath  those  haunted  groves,  who  quaffed 

From  crystal  cups  bright  draughts,  and  laughed 

Derisive  laughter — soft  and  clear, 

As  they  approached  me — near — so  near 

I  almost  caught  their  goblets  bright, 

When  swift  they  turned  in  sudden  flight, 

And  from  afar,  pealed  forth  those  swells 

Of  laughter  clear  as  silver  bells. 

Then  others  came,  more  fair,  who  reaped 

The  dripping  vines,  and  gaily  heaped 

Each  one  within  a  jasper  urn 

Her  stores  of  grapes,  which  seemed  to  turn 

Beneath  their  hands  to  sparkling  wine, 

While  useless  gems  they  shone  in  mine. 


ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON.  258 

A  vintage  by  ;i  river's  brink ! 

Yet  no  one  offered  me  a  drink 

Of  wine  or  water,  and  ere  long 

The  chorus  of  a  vintage  song 

Came  stealing  to  me,  whence  those  maids 

Had  vanished  'mid  ambrosial  shades. 

In  quick  pursuit,  I  followed  where 

Their  voices  rippled  through  the  air, 

Till  blind  with  anguish — cold  as  death, 

Chilled  (by  the  south  wind's  balmy  breath), 

Yet  burnt  by  torturing  thirst  within, 

Fiercer  than  memories  of  sin, 

Beneath  that  lustrous  summer  sky, 

I  laid  me  down  and  prayed  to  die. 

But  vainly  rose  my  mournful  prayer, 

The  "  King  of  Terrors  "  came  not  there ; 

And  sudden  darkness,  like  a  spell, 

Appalling  darkness  round  me  fell, 

Which  reft  the  earth  of  light  and  bloom, 

And  steeped  my  soul  in  utter  gloom. 

I  started  up — the  sun  had  set, 

The  torrent  poured  o'er  crags  of  jet 

Its  inky  waters — and  o'er  all 

A  black  sky  hung  its  funeral  pall — 

So  black,  the  clouds  that  floated  by 

Seemed  atoms  rifted  from  the  sky. 

Black  barks  before  me  seemed  to  glide, 

Whose  sails  were  blacker  than  the  tide, 

Peopled  by  wild  and  frantic  gholes, 

Strange  skeletons,  as  black  as  coals, 

Who  on  those  ghostly  decks  had  met 

To  quaff' black  blood  from  cups  of  jet. 

The  land  I  found  so  bright  and  warm, 

Seemed  stricken  by  a  scathing  storm  ; 

Its  fruits  and  flowers  of  late  so  fair, 

Hung  now  like  ebon  cinders  there, 

And  groves  which  erst  were  green  as  spring, 

Looked  blacker  than  the  raven's  wing  ; 


254  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

So  freezing  cold  the  wind  had  grown, 

I  seemed  within  the  frozen  zone, 

And  snow  came  drifting  to  the  earth, 

Black  as  the  clouds  that  gave  it  birth. 

I  saw  it  all — though  wrapped  in  night — 

Plainly  as  if  revealed  by  light, 

That  rayless,  dense,  unbroken  gloom 

"Was  suffocating  as  the  tomb 

To  those  who  from  long  trances  wake, 

And  strive  their  coffin-lids  to  break, 

(Discovered,  when  too  late  to  save) 

"Who  slept,  to  wake  within  the  grave  ! 

Their  agony,  though  keen,  is  brief, 

But  death  came  not  to  my  relief, 

And  years  of  bitter  pain  they  seemed, 

Those  torturing  hours  through  which  I  dreamed. 

Upon  that  cold  and  dismal  brink 

I  stooped  my  head  and  strove  to  drink 

The  murky  waves,  when  through  the  dark 

Came  gliding  up  a  spectral  bark ; 

I  climbed  the  deck,  where  demons  stood, 

And  quenched  my  thirst  at  last,  in  blood! 

They  pledged  me  in  that  draught  accurst, 

And  still  I  drank,  to  quench  my  thirst, 

Unmindful  that  our  black  bark  swept 

To  where  those  maddened  waters  leapt, 

Into  that  fathomless  abyss, 

Until  I  heard  them  scream  and  hiss 

Within  my  ears — on,  on  we  dashed, 

"While  'mid  those  jetty  crags  loud  crashed 

Our  sinking  ship — on,  on  we  rushed, 

Till  masts  and  timbers  all  were  crushed, 

When,  blind  with  blackness,  'mid  the  roar 

Of  inky  waves,  I  heard  no  more. 


ROSA    VERTNER    JOHNSON.  255 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  HOME. 

SUGGESTED   BY    AN   EXQUISITE    BOUQUET   SENT   TO    ME   DURING   A    SEVEKE 

ILLNESS. 

Oh !  let  them  touoli  my  burning  brow, 

The  petals  of  those  dewy  flowers, 
And  let  my  spirit  wander  now, 

Back  through  a  mist  of  bygone  hours, 
To  a  sunny  spot,  in  a  far-off  clime, 
Where  I  used  to  rove  in  my  childhood's  time. 

My  childhood's  home  !  how  like  a  spell 

Thy  dear  and  sacred  memory  lies 
Within  my  heart — as  in  a  well 

The  trembling  light  of  starry  skies, 
Gleams  through  its  crystal  depths  at  even, 
Until  they  seem  a  second  heaven. 

And  a  sweet  breath  of  southern  air 

Seems  stealing  gently  by  me  now — 
The  same  that  stirred  my  sunny  hair, 

And  blew  the  bonnet  from  my  brow- 
Long,  long  ago,  when  I  had  gone 
To  gather  flowers  at  early  dawn. 

Again,  with  many  a  joyous  bound, 

My  tiny  footsteps  swiftly  pass 
Where  golden  buttercups  were  found 

Half  hidden  'mid  the  rustling  grass, 
And  violets  from  the  soft,  green  sod 
Seemed  meekly  looking  up  to  God. 

There  often  have  I  paused  to  hear 

The  bee  his  drowsy  matin  sing. 
Too  gay  and  guileless  then  to  fear 

That  honey-bees  perchance  might  sting ; 


25(3  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

My  heart  was  all'  too  fresh  and  warm 
To  think  of  ill,  or  shrink  from  harm. 

And  now  along  the  good  old  hall 
Is  scattered  half  1113'  fragrant  store, 

For  I  have  heard  my  mother's  call, 
And,  dancing  through  the  open  door, 

Her  morning  kiss  I  fondly  meet, 

And  fling  my  treasures  at  her  feet. 

Then,  with  a  light  and  stealthy  tread, 
I  steal  behind  my  father's  chair, 

To  fling  a  garland  o'er  his  head, 
And  twine  it  'mid  the  silvery  hair, 

Till  every  rose  with  dewy  glow 

Seems  blushing  'neath  a  drift  of  snow. 

And  now  once  more  I  seem  to  stand 

"Where  long,  dark  shadows  round  me  sweep, 

My  gipsy  bonnet  in  my  hand. 

For  the  full  sunlight  dared  not  creep, 

With  all  its  glittering  pomp,  between 

Those  twining  boughs  of  evergreen. 

I  loved  the  gay,  glad  things  of  earth, 
The  sunshine,  birds,  and  streams,  and  flowers, 

Yet  would  I  hush  my  childhood  mirth, 

And  through  those  dim,  sequestered  bowers, 

In  solitude,  delight  to  steal. — 

'Twas  there  I  learned  to  think  and  feel. 

And  oft  I've  spread  a  banquet  fair. 
Of  acorn-cup  and  rose-leaves  bright, 

That  fairies  might  assemble  there 
To  revel  in  the  pale  moonlight ; 

I  loved  to  dream  of  mysteries 

Beneath  those  dark  ancestral  trees. 


ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON.  257 

That  homestead  is  in  ruins  laid  ; 

Its  fairest  blossoms  now  are  dead ; 
Yet  still  their  deep  and  solemn  shade 

Upon  the  waving  grass  is  shed ; 
Thus  often  sunshine  will  depart 
But  shadows  linger  on  the  heart. 

And  now  when  fever  wildly  burns 

Within  this  sad  and  aching  breast, 
My  spirit  through  the  past  returns, 

Beneath  that  peaceful  grave  to  rest ; 
There  Love  a  ceaseless  vigil  keeps, 
And  pensive  Memory  sometimes  weeps. 

The  nestling  of  a  wild  bird's  wings, 

A  star,  a  flower,  a  gush  of  rain, 
The  sight  of  sad  or  joyous  things, 

Oft  make  me  seem  a  child  again : 
With  voiceless  eloquence  they  come, 
Bright  phantoms  of  my  childhood's  home. 


ANGEL  WATCHERS. 

Angel  faces  watch  my  pillow,  angel  voices  haunt  my  sleep, 
And  upon  the  winds  of  midnight  shining  pinions  round  me  sweep; 
Floating  downward  on  the  starlight  two  bright  infant  forms  I  see, 
They  are  mine,  my  own  bright  darlings,  come  from  Heaven  to  visit  me. 

Earthly  children  smile  upon  me,  but  those  little  ones  above 
Were  the  first  to  stir  the  fountains  of  a  mother's  deathless  love  ; 
And,  as  now  they  watch  my  slumber,  while  their  soft  eyes  on  me  shine, 
God  forgive  a  mortal  yearning  still  to  call  His  angels  mine. 

Earthly  children  fondly  call  me,  but  no  mortal  voice  can  seem 
Sweet  as  those  that  whisper  "  Mother!"  'mid  the  glories  of  my  dream: 
Years  will  pass,  and  earthly  prattlers  cease  perchance  to  lisp  my  name, 
But  my  angel  babies'  accents  shall  be  evermore  the  same. 


258  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  the  bright  band  now  around  nie  from  their  home  perchance  will  rove, 
In  their  strength  no  more  depending  on  my  constant  care  and  love ; 
But  my  first-born  still  shall  wander  from  the  sky,  in  dreams  to  rest 
Their  soft  cheeks  and  shining  tresses  on  an  earthly  mother's  breast. 

Time  may  steal  away  the  freshness,  or  some  whelming  grief  destroy 
All  the  hopes  that  erst  had  blossomed  in  my  summer-time  of  joy  ; 
Earthly  children  may  forsake  me,  earthly  friends  perhaps  betray, 
Every  tie  that  now  unites  me  to  this  life  may  pass  away. 

But.  unchanged,  those  angel  watchers,  from  their  blest  immortal  home, 
Pure  and  fair,  to  cheer  the  sadness  of  my  darkened  dreams  shall  come, 
And  I  cannot  feel  forsaken,  for,  though  'reft  of  earthly  love, 
Angel  children  call  me  "Mother!"  and  my  soul  will  look  above. 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  OPAL. 

A  Peri,  from  her  sea-girt  cave. 

Was  wand'ring  on  a  summer's  even, 
When  white-caps  crowned  each  swelling  wave, 

And  clouds  were  on  the  face  of  heaven. 

Her  bark  of  light  and  fairy  form, 
Was  anchored  near  a  silvery  strand, 

While,  heedless  of  the  coming  storm, 
She  roamed  along  the  sparkling  sand. 

When  sun,  and  sky,  and  water  smiled, 
Often  she  sported  on  the  shore — 

But  never  had  this  ocean-child 
Beheld  her  father's  wrath  before. 

The  black  cloud  burst !  the  lightning  flashed  ! 

Down  rushed  the  floods  of  beating  rain, 
While  billows  caught  the  roar,  and  dashed 

Their  thundering  echoes  back  again. 


ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON.  259 

As  when  in  some  deep  wood  to  hide, 

A  bright  and  timid  bird  has  flown, 
Amid  this  strife  of  wind  and  tide, 

The  Peri  stood,  and  watched  alone, 

Till  the  mad  tempest  ceased  to  rave, 

Hushing  awhile  its  demon  yell, 
And  winds  had  muttered  to  each  wave, 

In  moaning  blasts,  a  low  farewell. 

Then,  where  dark  clouds  so  late  had  driven, 

And  rolling  thunders  fiercely  spoke, 
Now  sunlight  through  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

In  streams  of  softest  splendor  broke. 

And  see,  where  drop  and  sunbeam  met, 

That  beauteous  arch,  serenely  proud, 
As  if  some  son  of  light  had  set 

A  seal  of  glory  on  the  cloud. 

It  might  be  that  a  seraph's  wing 

Had  swept  along  the  moistened  air, 
And  left  its  mingled  hues  to  cling 

And  beam,  a  glittering  circlet  there. 

The  Peri  gazed  with  ecstasy 

Upon  the  rainbow's  graceful  form ; 
For,  ne'er  till  now,  beheld  her  eye, 

This  brilliant  of  the  sun  and  storm. 

She  ran  to  clasp  within  her  arms 

The  band  of  soft  and  dreamy  light, 
But  lo !  as  on  she  sped,  its  charms 

Fled  faster  from  her  eager  sight. 

"  Alas!"  she  cried,  "  beneath  the  wave, 
How  many  gems  of  beauty  lie  ! 
Yet  none  so  fair  within  my  cave, 
As  this  rich  jewel  of  the  sky. 


200  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  Oh!  could  I  seize  that  mystic  gleam, 
The  inconstant  lustre  which  I  see, 
Or  of  that  bow  but  one  soft  beam, 
To  bear  beneath  the  waves  with  me." 

And  as  her  tears  her  grief  proclaim, 
Filling  her  sad  and  downcast  eye, 

The  angel  of  the  rainbow  came, 
For  she  had  beard  the  Peri's  sigh. 

"  List,  daughter  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Bright  spirit  of  the  restless  deep, 
A  gem  of  light  I'll  give  to  thee, 

Then  mourn  no  more,  and  cease  to  weep." 

The  angel  paused — then  drawing  near, 
One  lucid  drop  she  quickly  stays ; 

And,  crystallized,  that  Peri's  fear 
Flashed  with  the  rainbow's  countless  rays. 

The  spirit  faded  from  her  sight, 
But  who  the  Peri's  joy  can  tell? 

When  with  its  heart  of  prisoned  light, 
An  Opal  on  her  bosom  fell ! 

And  thus  a  mystic  name  in  story, 
This  gem  has  borne  for  many  a  year, 

Blending  with  all  the  rainbow's  glory, 
An  ocean  spirit's  pearly  tear. 


THE   NIGHT    HAS    COME. 

The  night  has  come,  when  I  may  sleep, 

To  dream — perchance  of  thee — 
And  where  art  thou  ?     Where  south-winds  sweep 

Along  a  southern  sea. 


ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON.  201 

Thy  home,  a  glorious  tropic  isle 

On  which  the  sun  with  pride 
Doth  smile,  as  might  a  sultan  smile 

On  his  Circassian  bride. 


And  where  the  south- wind  gently  stirs 

A  chime  of  fragrant  bells, 
"While  come  the  waves  as  worshippers, 

With  rosary  of  shells, 
The  altars  of  the  shore  to  wreathe, 

Where,  in  the  twilight  dim, 
Like  nuns,  the  foam-veiled  breakers  breathe, 

Their  wild  and  gushing  hymn. 

The  night  has  come,  and  I  will  glide 

O'er  sleep's  hushed  waves  the  while, 
In  dreams  to  wander  by  thy  side 

Through  that  enchanting  isle. 
For,  in  the  dark,  my  fancy  seems 

As  full  of  witching  spells 
As  yon  blue  sky  of  starry  beams 

Or  ocean-depth  of  shells. 

Yet  sometimes  visions  do  becloud 

My  soul  with  such  strange  fears, 
They  wrap  me  like  an  icy  shroud 

And  leave  my  soul  in  tears. 
For  once  methought  thy  hand  did  bind 

Upon  my  brow  a  wreath 
In  which  a  viper  was  entwined 

That  stung  me — unto  death. 

And  once  within  a  lotus  cup, 

Which  thou   to  me  didst  bring, 
A  deadly  vampire  folded  up 


262  WOMEN1    OF    THE   SOUTH. 

And,  springing  from  that  dewy  nest, 
It  drained  life's  azure  rills, 

That  wandered  o'er  my  swelling  hreast 
Like  brooks  through  snow-clad  hills, 

Yet  seemed  it  sweeter  thus  to  die 

There,  in  thy  very  sight, 
Than  see  thee  'neath  that  tropic  sky, 

As  in  my  dreams  last  night. 
For  lo,  within  a  palmy  grove, 

Unto  an  eastern  maid 
I  heard  thee  whisp'ring  vows  of  love 

Beneath  the  feathery  shade. 

And  stately  as  the  palm  was  she, 

Yet  thrilled  with  thy  wild  words, 
As  its  green  crown  might  shaken  he 

By  many  bright-winged  birds  ; 
And  'neath  thy  smile,  in  her  dark  eye, 

A  rapturous  light  did  spring, 
As  in  a  lake  soft  shadows  lie, 

Dropped  from  the  rainbow's  wing. 

No  serpent  from  the  wreath  did  start. 

Which  round  her  brow  was  twined  ; 
Nor  in  the  lotus'  perfumed  heart 

Did  she  a  vampire  find  ; 
For  humming-birds  were  nestled  there, 

By  summer  sweets  oppressed, 
A  type  of  her  whose  raven  hair 

Was  floating  o'er  thy  breast. 

While  thus  I  dreamed,  all  cold  and  mute, 
My  warm  glad  heart  had  grown 

Like  some  fair  flower  or  sunny  fruit 
Turned  by  the  waves  to  stone  ; 


ROSA    VERTNER    JOHNSON  263 

For  o'er  the  treasures  of  my  soul 

There  swept  a  blacker  tide 
Than  e'en  the  dismal  floods  that  roll 

O'er  Sodom's  buried  pride 

But  passed  away  that  vision  dark, 

And  now  once  more  I  come, 
In  slumber's  slight,  fantastic  bark, 

Unto  thy  island  home ; 
And  thou  art  waiting  there  for  me 

To  weep  upon  thy  breast, 
As  on  the  shore  the  troubled  sea 

Doth  sigh  itself  to  rest. 

My  wreath  seems  now  of  orange  flowers, 

And  from  the  chaplet  pale 
Do  glow-worms  drop  in  shining  showers 

To  weave  my  bridal  veil. 
The  stars — God's  holy  tapers — light 

The  altars  of  the  shore, 
And  on  us  doth  the  solemn  night 

A  benediction  pour. 


TIIE  COMET  OF  1858. 

Oh,  whither  art  thou  hastening,  in  thy  wild  and  wondrous  flight? 
Fair  stranger  with  the  silver  plume,  and  panoply  of  light  ? 
Hast  thou  been  sweeping  ever  thus,  along  the  fields  of  space  ? 
Among  the  countless  orbs  on  high,  hast  thou  no  resting-place? 

Thou  art  a  mystery  in  the  sky,  as  strange,  and  undefined. 
And  glorious,  as  a  thought  of  God,  within  the  human  mind. 
Brighl  and  perplexing  there,  amid  the  knowledge  of  the  soul, 
As  thou  art,  seen  where  yon  calm  stars  their  changeless  courses  roll. 

A  fairy  web  of  crystal  light,  from  Night's  high  dome  of  blue 
Thy  glory  weaves,  so  delicate,  the  stars  look  softly  through. 


264  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

A  mist  so  radiant,  as  we  gaze,  there  lingers  no  regret, 

That  it  doth  shade  the  beacon-lamps  on  Heaven's  high  watch-tower  set. 

One  glory  by  another  veiled,  not  lessened,  as  we  trace 

The  light  of  God's  refulgent  smile,  through  the  Redeemer's  grace  ; 

A  veil  of  love,  so  beautiful,  we  kneel  adoring  there, 

And  gazing  up,  behold  it  stirred  by  every  breath  of  prayer. 

Whence  art  thou  now  ?     For  centuries,  long  centuries  have  past, 
Since  upon  mortal  vision  beamed  thy  peerless  beauty  last ; 
And  lo !  then  thousand  years  may  fling  upon  the  past  their  gloom. 
Ere  mid  yon  shining  host  again  shall  wave  thy  royal  plume. 

Did'st  spring  up  from  the  diamond  dust  of  which  the  stars  were  formed? 

Art  thou  a  spirit-star,  within  the  sun's  caresses  warmed  ? 

Or  a  fierce,  fiery  missile,  by  the  great  Omniscient  hurled, 

To  crush  and  blot  from  yonder  sky  some  sin-beclouded  world  ? 

Perchance,  thou  art  thyself  a  world,  peopled  by  spirits  lost ; 
Souls  doomed  throughout  immensity,  forever  to  be  tossed. 
Fair,  fallen  angels !  who  have  lost  their  heritage  in  Heaven, 
And  further  still  from  God  must  now  eternally  be  driven. 

Thou  mind'st  me  of  that  wondrous  plant,  whose  blossoms  bless  our  eyes 

Once  in  a  hundred  years — thou  are  the  Aloe  of  the  skies  ; 

Save,  that  a  myriad  radiant  years  doth  seem  a  briefer  time 

To  thee  than  mortal  centuries,  'neath  their  clouds  of  grief  and  crime. 

Thou  mind'st  me  of  the  burning  hopes  that  sometimes  wildly  start 
From  sorrow's  night,  and  flash  athwart  the  darkness  of  the  heart. 
Mysterious,  and  fantastic,  not  the  Urd-like  hope,  that  springs 
From  youth's  gay  green- wood  with  the  dew  of  freshness  on  its  wings. 

Phantoms  of  hope!  that  lure  us  on,  and  mocking,  bid  us  cling 
To  some  blest  idol  which  the  heart  has  worshipped  in  its  spring, 
Vainly !  as  dreaming  hearts  like  mine  may  worship  thee  and  mourn, 
(When  thou  art  lost)  'neath  starry  skies  of  half  their  glory  shorn. 


CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ. 

Four  years  ago,  while  the  MS.  of  her  last  work,  "  Ernest 
Linwood,"  was  yet  in  the  hands  of  the  printer,  Mrs.  Hentz 
passed  suddenly  into  the  spirit-world.  As  a  woman  and  friend 
she  was  deeply  mourned  by  the  large  circle  which  her  graces 
adorned,  and  the  whole  country  sang  a  dirge  for  the  author. 

Yet  Mrs.  Hentz  is  still  witli  us  in  her  writings.  They  are 
singularly  vital  with  her  personality.  The  sensibilities,  which 
gave  to  her  such  a  power  of  enjoyment,  and  were,  at  the  same 
time,  alive  to  "  an  angel's  scope  of  agony,"  quiver  in  her  works 
as  truly  as  they  once  played  upon  her  face  or  throbbed  in  her 
pulses.  Equally  apparent  on  every  page  are  the  vigor  and 
vivacity,  the  moral  perception,  the  religious  faith,  which 
marked  her  life  and  conversation. 

A  rich  "  cabinet  picture  "  of  Mrs.  Hentz,  from  the  pen  of  her 
intimate  friend,  Madame  Le  Vert,  will  bring  her  vividly  before 
our  readers : 

"  Some  writer  has  said,  '  authors  should  be  read,  not  known  ' 
— Mrs.  Hentz  is  a  bright  exception  to  this  remark.  She  is  one 
of  those  rare,  magnetic  women,  who  attract  admiration  at  the 
rirst  interview.  The  spell  she  wove  around  me  was  like  the 
invisible  beauty  of  music.  I  yielded  willingly  to  its  magic 
influence. 

"Never  have  I  met  a  more  fascinating  person.  Mind  is 
enthroned  on  her  noble  brow,  and  beams  in  the  glances  of  her 
radiant  eyes.     She  is  tall,  graceful  and  dignified,  with  that  high- 

265 


26G  WOMEX    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

bred  manner  winch  betokens  gentle  blood.  She  has  infinite 
tact  and  talent  in  conversation,  and  never  speaks  without 
awakening  interest.  As  I  listened  to  her  eloquent  language,  I 
felt  that  she  was  indeed  worthy  of  the  wreath  of  immortality 
which  fame  had  given  in  other  days,  and  other  lands,  to  a  De 
Genlis,  or  to  a  De  Sevigne. 

"  She  possesses  great  enthusiasm  of  character ;  the  enthu- 
siasm described  by  Mme.  De  Stael,  as  'God  within  us' — the 
love  of  the  good,  the  holy  and  the  beautiful.  She  has  neither 
pretension  nor  pedantry  ;  and,  although  admirably  accomplished, 
and  a  perfect  classic  and  belles-lettres  scholar,  has  all  the  sweet 
simplicity  of  an  elegant  woman. 

"  Like  the  charming  authoress,  Fredrika  Bremer,  her  works 
all  tend  to  elevate  the  tone  of  moral  feeling.  There  is  a  refine- 
ment, delicacy  and  poetic  imagery  in  all  her  historiettes  touch- 
ingly  delightful.  A  calm  and  pure  religion  is  mirrored  on  every 
page.  The  sorrow-stricken  mourner  finds  therein  the  balm  of 
consolation,  and  the  bitter  tears  cease  to  flow,  when  she  points 
to  that  '  Better  Land,'  where  the  loved  and  the  lost  are  waiting 
for  us. 

"  Many  of  her  words  are  gay  and  spiritual,  full  of  delicate 
wit,  '  bright  as  the  flight  of  a  shining  arrow.'  Often  have  the 
smiles,  long  exiled  from  the  lips,  returned  at  the  bidding  of  her 
merry  muse. 

"Home,  especially,  she  describes  with  enchanting  truthful- 
ness. She  seems  to  have  dipped  her  pen  in  her  own  soul,  and 
written  of  its  emotions.  She  exalts  all  that  is  generous  and 
noble  in  the  human  heart,  and  gives  to  even  the  clouds  of  exis- 
tence a  sunny  softness,  like  the  dreamy  light  of  a  Claude  Lor- 
raine picture." 

Caroline  Lee  Whiting  was  a  native  of  Lancaster,  Massachu- 
setts. Her  father,  General  John  Whitney,  and  two  of  her 
brothers,  were  officers  in  the  U.  S.  armr.     Of  the  latter,  General 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  267 

Henry  Whiting,  a  brave  man  and  a  scholar,  was  aid-de-camp 
to  General  Taylor,  and  distinguished  himself  in  the  Mexican 
War. 

Before  our  writer  had  reached  the  age  of  thirteen,  she  was 
the  author  of  a  poem,  a  novel,  and  a  tragedy  in  five  acts.  In 
1S25  she  married  Mr.  !N~.  M.  Hentz,  a  French  gentleman,  who, 
jointly  with  Mr.  Bancroft,  the  historian,  conducted  at  that  time 
a  seminary  at  Northampton,  Mass.  Soon  after,  Mr.  Hentz  was 
appointed  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in  the  College  of 
Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina.  This  position  he  occupied  for 
several  years,  and  then  removed  with  his  family  to  Covington, 
Kentucky,  where  Mrs.  Hentz  wrote  her  popular  drama,  "  De 
Lara ;  or  the  Moorish  Bride,"  for  which  she  received  five 
hundred  dollars  and  a  gold  medal,  the  prize  offered  in  Philadel- 
phia for  the  best  original  tragedy.  It  was  brought  out  at  the 
Arch  street  Theatre  of  that  city,  and  enacted  for  many  suc- 
cessive nights  with  eclat.     It  afterward  appeared  in  book  form. 

From  Covington  they  removed  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  and 
thence,  in  1834,  to  Locust  Hill,  in  Florence,  Alabama,  where 
for  nine  years  they  had  charge  of  a  flourishing  female  academy. 
In  1843  they  transferred  this  institution  to  Tuscaloosa  ;  thence, 
in  1845,  to  Tuskegee,  and  again,  in  1848,  to  Columbus,  Georgia, 
where   our  author  resided  at  the  time  of  her  death  in  1856. 

These  frequent  changes,  and  the  arduous  duties  of  their 
school,  afforded  Mrs.  Hentz  little  opportunity  for  literary  labor, 
and  not  until  their  removal  to  Columbus  was  she  able  to  write 
with  any  degree  of  regularity. 

Her  second  tragedy,  "  Lamorah,  or  the  Western  Wilds," 
appeared  in  a  newspaper  at  Columbus  ;  while  a  third, "  Countess 
of  Wirtemberg,"  is  still,  we  think,  unpublished. 

In  1843,  she  wrote  a  poem,  "  Human  and  Divine  Philo- 
sophy." for  the  Erosophic  Society  of  the  University  of  Alabama. 

She  is  best  known  by  her  spirited  novelettes,  contributed  to 


268  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

different  periodicals,  and  reproduced  from  time  to  time,  in 
pul  dished  volumes. 

In  1S46,  she  brought  out  "  Aimt  Patty's  Scrap-Bag,"  a 
collection  of  short  stories,  written  for  magazines.  This  was 
followed,  in  1848,  by  "Mob  Cap,"  which  obtained  a  prize  of 
two  hundred  dollars.  Both  of  these  books  have  been  univer- 
sally read  and  admired. 

In  1S50,  she  published  "  Linda,  or  the  Young  Pilot  of  the 
Belle  Creole;"  in  1851,  '■  Rena,  or  the  Snow  Bird ;"  in  1S52, 
"  Marcus  Warland,  or  the  Long  Moss  Spring;"  and  "  Eoline,  or 
Magnolia  Vale  ;"  in  1853,  "  Wild  Jack,"  and  "  Ellen  and  Arthur, 
or  Miss  Thusa's  Spinning  Wheel;"  in  1S54,  "The  Planter's 
Northern  Bride,"  which  took  rank  at  once  among  our  best 
novels;  and  in  1856,  her  master-piece  and  requiem,  "Ernest 
Linwood."  Some  extracts  from  a  notice  of  our  own,  which 
appeared  at  that  time  in  the  "  Evening  Mirror,"  may  recall  the 
tender  pathos  and  force  of  this  book,  with  the  touching  acces- 
sories of  its  publication : 

"  '  Death  darkens  his  eye,  and  unplumes  his  wings, 
But  the  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sings.'  " 

"In  the  volume,  'Ernest  Linwood,'  just  issued  by  Jewett 
&  Co.,  of  Boston,  we  have  the  dying  song  of  the  gifted  Mrs. 
Caroline  Lee  Hentz.  Mournfully  sweet,  like  the  sigh  of  an 
iEolian  lyre,  yet  deep  and  oracular  as  the  voice  of  many  waters, 
it  seems  to  have  been  poured  forth  while  her  soul  floated  down 
to  the  ocean  of  Best.  On  almost  every  page  we  can  trace  the 
shadow  of  the  death  angel,  who  bore  her  away  when  her  song 
was  ended.  Mysterious  gleams  from  beneath  the  uplifting  veil 
of  spirit-land  startle  us  as  we  read.  The  book  is  a  broad-cast 
farewell — a  lingering  hand-grasp  from  one  we  loved.  If  we 
mistake  not,  its  most  impressive  passages  are  revelations  of  the 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  269 

inner  life    of  the  writer — wonderfully  vivid    and    absorbing, 
because  wonderfully  real. 

"  We  will  not  attempt  to  follow  out,  in  this  notice,  the  thread 
of  an  inimitable  tale;  in  so  doing,  we  should  only  anticipate 
scenes  and  events,  which  come,  with  beautiful  linkings  and  fine 
effect,  before  the  eye  of  the  reader.  We  would  not  rob  the 
book  of  half  its  charm. 

"  Sweet  Gabriella  Lynn  will  tell  her  own  story.  Warm 
tears  will  spring  into  bright  eyes,  as  they  look  opon  the  dream- 
child  —  the  impassioned  school-girl  —  standing  beneath  the 
'beetling  brows'  of  the  powerful  preceptor,  to  hear  sentence 
pronounced  upon  her  first  written  dream  of  poetry.  The  pant- 
ing of  that  heart,  when  the  taunting  criticism  fell — the  sudden 
spring — the  snatching  of  the  manuscript — the  flight  into  the 
woods — the  passionate  outburst  upon  the  green  turf — the  blessed 
ministration  of  a  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother — will  carry  many  a 
heart  back  to  the  shadows  of  school-days  and  the  rich  sunlight 
of  home. 

'•  We  linger  over  the  exquisite  picture  of  the  child  Gabriella, 
peering  with  deep  eyes  into  the  mist  that  surrounded  her,  and 
vainly  seek  with  her  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  life.  We  look 
with  her  upon  the  classic  face  of  her  dead  mother,  Rosalie,  and 
wonder  at  the  mystery  of  death.  We  follow  her  to  the  end,  for 
she  is  the  one  silver  thread  always  visible.  Every  scene  is  a 
reality,  and  each  succeeding  scene  more  real,  more  luminous 
than  the  last.  The  writer  seems  to  gather  power  ami  inspiration 
as  she  advances,  pouring  out  her  life,  like  the  dying  swan,  in 
strains  of  painful  sweetness. 

•'The  characters  in  this  book  are  drawn  with  masterly  skill. 
Each  has  an   individuality  and    a  relative   importance,  without 
which   the  story  would  be  incomplete.      No  diabolical  agent  I 
drags   its   slimy  length   along  its  pages,  but  we  are  held  spell-    » 
bound   by   the  delineations  of  a  fault,  and  the  natural  conse- 


270  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

quences  of  a  fault,  which  develops  itself  at  every  turn  in  life. 
'  Ernest  Linwood ' — the  lordly  in  intellect — the  peerless  in  beauty 
and  manhood — -whose  '  eyes  with  a  thousand  meanings,'  gaze 
into  our  very  souls,  is  made  the  temple  of  the  unhallowed 
passion  of  jealousy.  Its  purple  light,  at  intervals,  towers  above 
every  noble  element  of  his  nature,  but,  with  the  gentle  G-abriella, 
we  always  pity,  always  forgive,  and  he  is  at  last  lifted,  by  sor- 
r<  iwful  lessons  and  earnest  prayers,  from  his  inglorious  thralldom. 

"  Margaret  Melville,  or  '  Meg  the  Dauntless,'  is  a  life-like, 
genuine  character — the  rarest  spice  of  the  tale,  though  she  does 
come  in  always  at  unseasonable  hours.  "We  like  her,  notwith- 
standing her  hoydenish  eccentricities. 

"  Let  those  who  are  accustomed  to  give  voice  and  wings  to 
scandalous  gossip,  hiding  beneath  the  broad  garments  of  an 
irresponsible  '  They  Say,'  let  such  find  in  the  book  '  Ernest  Lin- 
wood,' their  unmasked  and  hideous  faces. 

"The  graces  of  the  true  Christian  are  beautifully  marked  in 
the  character  of  Mrs.  Linwood,  and  a  recognition  of  an  over- 
ruling Power  is  everywhere  apparent. 

"  All  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Caroline  Lee  Hentz  indicate  fine 
and  keen  sensibilities  of  soul.  It  is  a  sweet  assurance  that  they 
drink  only  the  beautiful  now — thrill  only  to  divinest  harmonies." 

The  short  poems  of  Mrs.  Hentz,  are  scattered  in  various 
periodicals.  They  are  full  of  the  tender  warmth  of  the  writer's 
nature,  and  flow  and  gush,  and  sparkle,  as  naturally  as  a  wood- 
land brook. 

Her  tragedy,  "  De  Lara,  or  the  Moorish  Bride,"  stands  first 
among  her  poetical  works,  and  holds  high  rank  in  the  dramatic 
literature  of  America.  It  is  remarkable  for  its  depth  of  thought 
and  force  of  utterance,  its  searching  insight  and  poetic  beauty. 

The  scenes  and  incidents  of  Mrs.  Hentz's  stories  were  drawn 
almost  entirely  from  southern  life.  She  wrote  with  singular 
grace  and  facility,  sitting  down  in  the  midst  of  the  family  circle, 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  271 

and  taking  up  her  pen,  as  one  has  said,  very  much  "  as  others 
do  their  knitting,"  to  dash  off  sheet  after  sheet  in  perfect  order 
for  the  printer. 

A  new,  complete,  and  uniform  edition  of  Mrs.  Hentz's  works 
has  heen  given  to  the  world  since  her  death,  hy  Peterson  & 
Brothers,  of  Philadelphia. 


"THEY  SAY." 

They  say!  "Who  are  they?  Who  are  the  cowled  monks,  the  hooded 
friars,  who  glide  with  shrouded  faces  in  the  procession  of  life,  muttering 
in  an  unknown  tongue  words  of  mysterious  import?  Who  are  they? 
The  midnight  assassins  of  reputations,  who  lurk  in  the  by-ways  of  society, 
with  dagger  tongues,  sharpened  by  invention  and  envenomed  by  malice, 
to  draw  the  blood  of  innocence,  and,  hyena-like,  banquet  on  the  dead. 
Who  are  they?  They  are  a  multitude  no  man  can  number,  black-stoled 
familiars  of  the  inquisition  of  Slander,  searching  for  victims  in  every  city, 
town,  and  village,  wherever  the  heart  of  humanity  throbs,  or  the  ashes 
of  mortality  find  rest.  Give  me  the  bold  brigand,  who  thunders  along 
the  highways  with  flashing  weapon,  that  cuts  the  sunbeams  as  well  as 
the  shades.  Give  me  the  pirate,  who  unfurls  the  black  flag,  and  shows 
the  plank  which  your  doomed  feet  must  tread ;  but  save  me  from  the 
They-sayers  of  society,  whose  knives  are  hidden  in  a  velvet  sheath,  whose 
bridge  of  death  is  woven  of  flowers,  and  who  spread,  with  invisible  poi- 
son, even  the  spotless  whiteness  of  the  winding  sheet. 


FAME. 

To  touch  the  electric  wire,  and  feel  the  bolt  scathing  one's  own  brain; 
to  speak,  and  hear  the  dreary  echo  of  one's  voice  return  through  the 
desert  waste;  to  enter  the  temple,  and  find  nothing  but  ruins  and  desola- 
tion :  to  lay  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar,  and  see  no  fire  from  heaven  descend 
in  token  of  acceptance;  to  stand  the  priestess  of  a  lonely  shrine,  uttering 
oracles  to  the  unheeding  wind — is  not  such,  too  often,  the  doom  of  those 
who  have  looked  to  fame  as  their  heritage? 


272  WOMEN*     OF    THE    SOUTH. 


UNION  WITHOUT  LOVE. 

Woe  to  her,  who,  forgetting  this  heavenly  union,  bathes  her  heart  in 
the  earthly  stream,  without  seeking  the  living  spring  whence  it  flows ; 
who  worships  the  fire-ray  'that  falls  upon  the  altar,  without  giving  glory 
to  Him  from  whom  it  descended.  The  stream  will  heeome  a  stagnant 
pool,  exhaling  pestilence  and  death  ;  the  fire-ray  will  kindle  a  devouring 
flame,  destroying  the  altar  with  the  gift,  and  the  heart  a  turning  bush, 
that  will  blaze  forever  without  consuming. 


THE  BLACK  MASK. 

"  No,  I  will  not  go  to-night,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  taking  from  her 
head  a  bandeau  of  pearls,  and  tossing  it  into  the  hands  of  her  attendant. 
"  No,  I  will  not  go — I  am  weary  most  of  all  of  talking  and  listening  to 
nonsense.  I  will  stay  at  home,  and  enjoy  the  supreme  luxuries  of  sim- 
plicity, quiet,  and  solitude.  Yes!  solitude!  fir  dear  Mrs.  Channing  is 
gone  to  an  old-fashioned  tea-party,  and  you,  Elsie,  are  not  to  disturb  me, 
after  I  have  once  composed  myself  to  the  task  of  admiring  myself,  hy 
myself.'' 

"  But  this  beautiful  dress?"  cried  her  obsequious  chambermaid. 

"  Put  it  back  in  the  wardrobe." 

"  These  pearls  ?" 

"  In  the  case." 

"  These  flowers  ?" 

"  Ah  !  give  me  the  flowers.  They  are  beautiful,  they  breathe  of  nature, 
and  I  love  them.  Here,  take  this  heavy  comb  from  my  hair,"  continued 
the  capricious  beauty,  and  then  shaking  her  hair  loosely  over  her  shoul- 
ders, and  untying  the  bouquet,  she  twisted  the  flowers  into  a  careless 
garland  and  twined  it  round  her  head. 

"  And  now,  Elsie,  give  me  that  simple  white  robe,  fastened  with  blue 
ribbons.  You  must  confess  it  is  ten  thousand  times  prettier  than  the  one 
you  have  just  put  aside.  Ah,  me  !  I  wish  I  were  nothing  but  a  plain 
country  lassie,  left  to  wander  about  at  my  own  sweet  will." 

"  I  think  somebody  has  her  own  sweet  will  now,"  said  Elsie  to  her- 
self, vexed  to  think  that  her   young  and  beautiful  mistress  was  going  to 


CAROLINE    LEE    HEXTZ.  273 

shut  herself  up  at  home,  instead  of  exhibiting  herself  to  the  admiring 
crowd. 

"  But  what  shall  I  say  to  Mr.  Orne,  when  he  calls  to  attend  you?" 

'•  Tell  him  I  cannot,  will  not  go  to-night." 

"  He  will  be  angry." 

"  I  care  not — hut  he  is  too  stupid  to  be  angry.  Besides,  he  has  no  cause, 
for  I  gave  no  promise  to  accompany  him." 

Elsie,  who  was  accustomed  to  the  varying  moods  of  Blanche,  sighed 
as  she  put  away  the  beautiful  paraphernalia  of  fashion,  with  which  she  had 
hoped  to  adorn  her  mistress  for  the  evening's  fete,  while  Blanche,  telling 
her  she  had  no  further  need  of  her  services,  descended  to  the  little  room 
she  called  her  boudoir.  And  a  charming  little  room  it  was — a  perfect 
bijou  of  a  room — fitting  palace  for  a  fairy  queen.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
she  liked  sometimes  to  rest  on  that  soft-,  blue-cushioned  sofa,  and  look 
around  on  all  the  exquisite  adornments  her  own  taste  had  selected.  Cur- 
tains of  blue  damask,  her  favorite  color,  shaded  the  window ;  the  glass 
doors  of  her  cabinet  were  lined  with  the  same  cerulean  hue ;  and  even 
the  figures  of  the  carpet  were  blue,  melting  oft'  in  a  background  of  white. 
Little  Cupids,  painted  in  fresco,  on  the  ceiling,  seemed  to  fan  her  with 
their  wings,  and  Cupids,  still  smaller,  fashioned  of  marble,  supported  the 
lamps  that  glittered  on  the  mantel-piece.  There  were  ever  so  many 
Cupids,  little,  less,  least,  bronze,  porcelain,  and  glass,  on  the  shelves  of 
the  etagere,  which  looked  like  a  royal  baby-house,  with  its  magical  toys 
and  indescribable  curiosities.  The  only  thing  of  use  on  which  the  eye 
could  rest  was  a  magnificent  harp,  supported  by  a  lazy-looking  Cupid, 
lurking  in  the  corner  of  the  apartment,  thus  throwing  the,  illusion  of 
mythology  and  poetry  over  an  instrument  in  itself  most  poetical  and 
romantic.  Blanche  gathered  back  the  azure  folds  of  the  curtains  into  the 
gilded  hands  that  issued  from  the  walls,  ready  to  grasp  them,  drew  the 
light  sofa  near  the  window,  and  seating  herself  upon  it,  looked  admirably 
in  keeping  with  all  the  surrounding  objects.  She,  too,  wore  the  livery 
of  white  and  blue,  and  soft  and  bright  sparkled  her  bright  blue  eyes 
beneath  her  white  brow.  Her  heart,  moreover,  was  clothed  with  the 
whiteness  of  innocence,  and  the  blue  of  hope  fluttered  gaily  as  a  silken 
ribbon  over  a  spotless  surface.  Though  the  child  of  wealth,  and  the  idol 
of  fashion,  she  was  yet  unspoiled  by  their  influence.  Her  caprices  were 
white,  fleecy  clouds,  floating  over  the  clear  blue  of  an  April  morning. 
One  thing  more  completed  the  livery.      Blanche,  sweet,  charming,  capri- 

1* 


274  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

cious,  blue-eyed  Blanche,  with  sorrow  we  confess  it,  had  a  tinge  of  the 
blues.  Listen  to  her  thoughts,  as  they  move  with  their  low  whispers  the 
folds  of  her  muslin  robe  : 

"  I  want  to  be  alone,  and  yet  I  want  some  one  near  to  whom  I  can 
say — 'How  sweet  it  is  to  be  alone.'  The  pleasures  of  society — how  I 
panted  for  them  when  I  was  a  foolish  little  school-girl,  pining  for  liberty 
that  I  cannot  now  enjoy  !  And  for  a  while,  I  did  enjoy  them  vividly, 
wildly.  It  was  rapturing  to  he  thought  beautiful,  to  be  admired  and 
caressed  and  loved.  Loved  t  No.  I  have  never  yet  been  really  loved. 
Love  disdains  flattery  and  adulation.  My  own  heart  will  bear  witness 
when  it  is  true  and  honest.  '  Yes,'  added  she,  laying  her  hand  on  its 
gentle,  uniform  throbbing,  'the  voice  has  never  yet  breathed  into  my 
ears  that  can  quicken  the  pulsations  of  this  heart  of  mine.  I  look  in  vain 
among  the  cold,  vapid  devotees  of  fashion  for  one  touch  of  nature,  one 
flash  of  passion.  I  shall  mingle  with  them  till  I  become  as  cold,  as  vain, 
as  vapid  myself.  I  shall  live  and  die,  and  the  world  will  never  know  what 
I  might  have  been,  from  what  I  am,  and  what  I  shall  be." 

"And  yet,"  added  the  ennuyee,  "I  am  wrong  to  say  I  have  never 
been  loved.  There  is  one  I  know,  who,  I  believe,  loves  me  well,  and 
whom  I  have  sometimes  thought  I  might  love  in  return,  did  I  meet  him 
anywhere  save  in  the  cold  halls  of  fashion.  Could  he  throw  any  romance, 
any  mystery  around  him,  I  might  possibly  become  interested  in  him. 
There  would  be  nothing  heroic  or  self-sacrificing  in  my  loving  him,  for 
fortune  smiles  upon  him,  and  friends  are  zealous  to  promote  his  cause. 
Were  he  poor,  I  could  enrich  him  with  my  wealth.  Were  he  lowly,  I  could 
ennoble  him  with  my  connexions;. or,  were  /poor  and  lowly,  he  could  prove 
the  disinterestedness  of  his  attachment.  I  cannot  bear  this  common-place 
kind  of  wooing,  this  dull,  matter-of-fact  kind  of  existence.  I  could  envy  the 
wild  love  of  O'Connor's  child,  '  the  bud  of  Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory,'  though 
thrice-dyed  in  blood  was  the  tissue  of  her  mournful  story." 

If  the  remarks  of  Blanche  seem  incoherent,  let  it  be  remembered  that 
she  is  conversing  with  herself,  and  every  one  knows  how  wildly  the  thoughts 
may  run,  when  imagination  is  let  loose. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  romantic  damsel ;  "  cannot  I  do  something  to 
charm  the  solitude  that  already  begins  to  weary  me?  Ah,  there  is  my 
harp ;  I  do  love  its  sounding  strains,  now  charming  it  would  be  to  have 
some  young  hero  bending  over  me  as  I  play,  while  I  drank  in  inspiration 
from  his  kindling  eyes  !" 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  275 

Drawing  the  harp  near  her,  she  passed  her  hands  over  its  golden  chords, 
and  made  a  sweet  wild  medley  of  strains,  caught  np  from  many  a  remem- 
bered song.  Her  hair,  as  it  swept  over  her  white  arms,  against  the  glit- 
tering wires,  resembled  the  golden  locks  of  the  maiden  whose  ringlets 
were  twined  into  the  chords,  from  which  such  exquisite  music  had  been 
drawn.  Long  she  played  and  sang,  till  the  little  Cupids  on  the  walls 
looked  as  if  they  were  flying  about  inspired  by  her  thrilling  notes.  She 
did  not  hear  the  sound  of  entering  footsteps;  but  a  shadow  fell  upon  the 
harp,  anil  she  looked  up.  A  tall,  dark  figure  stood  before  her,  black 
from  head  to  font.  Supposing  it  a  negro  who  had  boldly  intruded  into 
her  presence,  she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  terror,  and  sprang  toward 
the  door. 

"  Pardon  this  intrusion,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  gentle  voice,  bowing 
gracefully  as  he  spoke ;  "  I  did  not  mean  to  terrify,  and  if  you  will 
grant  mo  a  few  moments'  audience,  you  will  find  you  have  no  cause  to 
fear." 

She  observed  with  astonishment,  that  the  hand  which  he  slightly 
extended  in  speaking,  was  almost  as  fair  as  her  own,  while  his  face  was 
as  black  as  night.  Still  trembling  with  terror,  though  somewhat  reassured 
by  the  sweetness  of  his  voice,  she  ventured  to  look  on  him  more  stead- 
fastly, and  discovered  that  he  wore  a  mask  of  black  enamel,  above  which 
his  raven  black  hair  clustered,  making  of  the  head  one  ebon  mass. 

"  How  did  you  gain  admittance?"  she  asked,  tremulously.  "And  what 
is  your  errand  with  me?" 

"Will  you  forgive  me,"  he  answered,  "when  I  say,  that,  attracted  by 
the  sweetness  of  your  voice,  as  it  was  borne  through  the  open  windows, 
by  the  breath  of  night,  I  have  dared  to  present  myself  before  you,  believ- 
ing that  the  same  instinct  which  caused  my  presumption  will  plead  for 
my  pardon,  and  secure  my  welcome?" 

"Indeed,  sir,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  her  cheek  glowing  with  anger,  "this 
is  an  intrusion  1  consider  unpardonable.  As  neither  pardon  nor  welcome 
awaits  you  here,  I  trust  you  will  leave  me  immediately.  To  a  gentleman, 
the  request  of  a  lady  has  the  authority  of  a  command." 

Blanche  was  astonished  at  her  own  courage  in  thus  daring  to  address 
the  masked  and  mysterious  stranger.  Though  angry  at  his  presumption, 
she  could  not  repress  a  keen  delight  at  an  adventure  so  singular  anil 
romantic.  The  indescribable  charm  of  bis  voice  had  disarmed  her  terror, 
and  the  grace  and  dignity  of  his  mien  spoke  the  polished  and  high-bred 


276  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

gentleman.  But  the  black  mask — the  sudden  entrance — the  lonely  hour — 
the  stillness  of  the  night — these  things  pressed  upon  her  heart,  and  its 
throbbings  became  quick  and  loud. 

"Permit  me,"  said  the  stranger,  "before  I  depart,  to  repay  you,  if  pos- 
sible, for  the  soothing  pleasure  your  music  has  imparted.  I,  too,  am  a  son 
of  song,  and  like  the  bards  of  Ossian,  I  love  to  wake  the  breezy  melody  of 
the  harp-string." 

While  he  was  speaking,  he  approached  the  instrument  from  which  she 
had  retreated  at  his  entrance,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee,  he  swept  his  hands 
over  the  chords,  making  a  prelude  of  such  surpassing  sweetness,  she  held  her 
breath  to  listen.  Then  mingling  with  the  diapason  the  rich  tones  of  his 
voice,  he  began  a  song  whose  words  seemed  the  improvisation  of  genius,  for 
they  applied  to  herself,  the  hour,  the  meeting,  in  strains  of  such  wondrous 
melody,  she  felt  under  the  dominion  of  enchantment.  Never  before  had  she 
heard  such  music  as  came  gushing  through  that  ebon  mask,  filling  the  room 
with  a  flood  of  harmony  which  almost  drowned  her  sinking  spirit.  Unable 
to  bear  up  under  the  new  and  overpowering  emotions  that  were  oppressing 
her,  she  sunk  back  on  the  sofa,  and  tears  stole  from  her  downcast  eyes. 

The  stranger  paused,  and  rising,  leaned  gracefully  on  the  harp  from  which 
he  had  been  calling  forth  such  celestial  notes. 

"  You  weep,"  said  he  ;  "  but  they  are  not  tears  of  sorrow.  You  would 
not  exchange  those  tears  for  the  false  smiles  which  would  have  gilded  your 
face  had  you  mingled  in  the  crowd,  an  instinct  of  your  heart  led  you  this 
night  to  avoid.  You  shunned  the  giddy  throng.  You  sought  the  solitude 
of  this  delicious  apartment  only  that  you  might  meet  a  kindred  spirit  here. 
Farewell !  we  shall  meet  again.  No  earthly  barrier  could  now  keep  us 
asunder." 

Stooping  down  and  picking  up  a  rose  that  had  fallen  from  her  hair,  and 
putting  it  in  his  bosom,  he  added  : 

"This  flower  shall  be  sent  to  you  as  a  token  when  I  am  again  near." 

He  turned,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  apartment,  when,  urged  by  irre- 
sistible curiosity,  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Before  you  depart,  let  me  behold  the  face  of  my  mysterious  friend,  and 
tell  me  why  you  wear  so  strange  and  solemn  a  disguise." 

"I  cannot  break  a  vow  that  I  have  imposed  on  myself,"  replied  the  black- 
masked  stranger.  "  It  is  only  at  the  nuptial  altar  that  I  can  lift  the  dark 
visor  which  conceals  my  features.  The  woman  who  can  love  me  well 
enough  to  unite  her  fate  with  mine,  unknowing  what  this  mask  conceals, 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  277 

whether  it  he  matchless  beauty  or  unequalled  deformity,  will  alone  have 
power  to  remove  the  disguise  whose  midnight  shadow  now  darkens  the 
moonlight  of  your  beauty.  Do  you  believe  that  spiritual,  high-souled,  trust- 
ing woman  exists?     Do  you  believe  such  love  can  be  found?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  love,"  she  answered,  endeavoring  to  speak  coldly; 
but  her  voice  unconsciously  obeyed  the  spell  that  was  upon  her,  and  its 
modulations  were  soft  as  the  breathings  of  her  own  dulcet  harp. 

"Happy  is  he  who  will  teach  thee  its  divine  lore,"  said  the  stranger, 
again  seating  himself  by  her  side.  "O,  maiden,  more  beautiful  than  the 
dream  of  the  poet,  more  pure  than  the  vision  of  infancy,"  continued  lie, 
in  a  strain  of  romantic  enthusiasm,  such  as  she  never  had  expected  to 
hear  from  mortal  lips,  "be  it  mine  to  instill  this  wisdom  into  the  heart 
that  is  even  now  sighing  to  receive  it.  Mine  be  the  master  hand  that 
will  touch  the  golden  chords  of  sympathy,  and  awaken  all  your  slumber- 
ing being  to  the  music  of  love." 

"O,  that  I  dared  to  believe— that  I  dared  to  listen!"  cried  Blanche, 
carried  out  of  herself  by  an  influence  that  seemed  electric;  "but  this 
interview,  so  sudden,  so  mysterious,  your  strange  vow,  your  dark  eclipse, 
the  commanding  power  you  exert  over  my  will — ah,  leave  me.  I  cannot 
bear  the  oppression  that  is  weighing  down  my  heart." 

"I  obey  you,"  he  cried,  again  rising.  "For  worlds  I  would  not  en- 
croach on  the  goodness  that  has  forgiven  my  presumption,  or  the  gentle- 
ness and  sensibility  that  plead  even  now,  with  eloquent  tongue,  the  cause 
of  your  mysterious  friend.  Farewell.  For  the  rose  of  which  I  have 
robbed  you,  accept  this  diamond  ring." 

"Taking  her  hand,  and  encircling  her  finger  with  the  brilliant  token, 
he  passed  through  the  door  like  a  vision  of  night,  leaving  her  speechless 
and  spell-bound.  So  startling,  so  thrilling  was  the  pressure,  she  sat  like 
one  in  a  nightmare.  She  had  almost  imagined  herself  in  a  dream,  in  the 
presence  of  her  mysterious  guest ;  but  the  warm,  soft  pressure  of  that 
ungloved  hand  assured  her  of  the  reality  of  the  scene.  Then  the  ring 
that  glittered  on  her  finger  with  such  surpassing  brightness,  the  golden 
circle  with  its  star-like  gem,  that  seemed  to  burn  into  her  rlc-sh.  s<1  strongly 
did  it  warm  and  accelerate  the  current  that  was  glowing  and  rushing 
through  her  veins!  Astonished,  bewildered,  terrified,  but  charmed  at  a 
romance  exceeding  her  wildest  hopes,  she  flew  upstairs  to  her  dressing- 
room,  where  Elsie  sat  slumbering  in  an  easy-chair,  thus  beguiling  the  time 
of  her  mistress'  absence.     Blanche  had  always   made  a  confidant  of  Elsie, 


278  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

and  now  her  heart  would  have  hurst  with  its  strange  secret  if  she  could 
not  have  confided  it  to  another.  She  awoke  the  slumhering  girl,  and 
related  the  astonishing,  the  almost  incredible  incident. 

"  Impossible!"  cried  Elsie;  "  it  must  have' been  a  delusion  of  the  senses." 
"But  this  ring— this  surely  is  a  reality.     Did    you   ever   see  anything 
so  surpassingly  brilliant?"  and  she  turned  the  radiant  token  till  it  flashed 
back  the  lamplight  dazzlingly  into  the  wondering  eyes  of  the  girl. 

"0,  for  the  love  of  the  blessed  Virgin!"  she  exclaimed  (Elsie  was  a 
devout  Catholic),  "  for  the  love  of  your  own  sweet  soul,  don't  wear  it.  It  is 
a  magic  ring,  I  am  sure,  and  the  black  man  that  put  it  there  may  be  Lucifer 
himself,  for  aught  you  know." 

"  My  good  Elsie,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish  and  superstitious  ?  Even  if  I 
could  believe  in  the  incarnation  of  an  evil  spirit,  it  never  could  assume  a  form 
so  gracious,  or  speak  in  a  voice  so  sweet.  O,  never  did  I  hear  such  a  voice 
of  music  !  Though  I  could  not  see  his  face,  his  eyes  beamed  resplendently 
through  his  mask,  and  his  hand  is  the  fairest  I  ever  beheld." 

"But  why  should  he  put  on  that  ugly  mask,  unless  he  has  some 'evil  pur- 
pose ?" 

"lie  is  under  a  vow  to  wear  it  till " 

Blanche  paused  and  blushed,  and  then  blushed  more  painfully,  because 
she  was  so  foolish  as  to  blush  at  all. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  wears  it  to  cover  some  horrible  mark,"  cried  Elsie, 
shuddering  and  crossing  herself. 
"  Impossible." 

"I  dare  say  lie  has  the  face  of  a  skeleton  underneath.  I  have  heard  of 
such  things." 

"Silence,  Elsie!  it  is  sacrilege  to  talk  as  you  do." 

But  though  Elsie  bridled  her  tongue,  the  disagreeable  impression  her 
words  had  produced  still  remained.  The  possibility  of  their  truth  chilled 
the  glowing  romance  of  Blanche's  feelings,  and  checked  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  remembrance  dwelt  on  her  mysterious  visitor.  Blanche  bound  Elsie 
by  a  promise  not  to  mention  the  incident  to  Mrs.  Channing,  the  lady  who 
acted  as  tnaternal  guardian  to  the  orphan  Blanche,  and  presided  over  the 
mansion  of  her  youthful  charge.  All  the  next  day  Blanche  remained  in  a 
kind  of  dreamy  abstraction,  the  color  coming  and  going  on  her  beautiful 
cheek,  and  her  soft  blue  eyes  suffused  with  a  misty  languor.  Sometimes  she 
delighted  herself  in  picturing  the  features  that  the  shrouding  mask  concealed 
as  the  ideal  of  manly  beauty;   then  again  the  horrible  suggestions  of  Elsie 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  279 

would  recur  to  her  and  fill  her  with  nameless  apprehensions.  She  thought 
of  the  veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan,  the  doom  of  the  helpless  Zelica,  and  the 
unutterable  horrors  concealed  by  the  silver  veil.  She  remembered  the 
beautiful  Leonora  and  the  phantom  horseman,  whose  skeleton  visage  was 
hidden  by  the  closed  bars  of  his  visor,  and  who  bore  his  confiding  bride  to 
the  ghastly  churchyard  and  the  yawning  grave.  She  remembered  that  his 
form  wore  the  semblance  of  manly  grace,  and  that  his  voice  had  a  tone  of 
more  than  earthly  sweetness. 

"  How  foolish,  how  childish  I  am!"  thought  she,  smiling  at  the  super- 
stitious images  on  which  she  had  been  dwelling.  "The  silver-veiled 
Mokanna  and  the  Phantom  Husband  of  Leonora  were  beings  existing  only  in 
the  imagination  of  the  poet,  whom  the  genius  of  the  painter  has  also  deline- 
ated. But  the  black-masked  stranger  is  a  living,  breathing  actuality,  of 
whose  existence  and  presence  I  have  a  dazzling  token." 

Another  idea  disturbed  her  excited  brain.  Perhaps  she  was  the  sport  of 
some  bold  youth,  who,  knowing  her  romantic  temperament,  had  thus  sought 
to  play  upon  her  credulity  and  expose  her  to  the  ridicule  of  the  world.  So 
strong  became  this  conviction,  that  when  evening  came  on,  and  she  was 
summoned,  as  usual,  to  entertain  her  admiring  visitors,  she  fancied  she  could 
trace  in  many  forms  a  similitude  to  the  lineaments  of  the  graceful  stranger. 
But  no.  It  was  an  illusion  of  the  imagination.  No  figure  half  so  graceful, 
no  voice  half  so  sweet  as  his.  Never  had  the  conversation  of  her  compan- 
ions seemed  half  so  uninteresting  and  commonplace,  never  had  the  hours 
appeared  so  long  and  leaden.  She  played  upon  her  harp,  but  her  own  strains 
recalled  the  ravishing  melody  of  his,  and  her  hands  trembled  as  they  swept 
the  sounding  strings.  She  talked  and  smiled,  and  tried  to  chain  her  wander- 
ing thoughts,  but  they  would  stay  far  out  in  the  moonlight  night,  where 
fancy  followed  the  dark  form  of  the  stranger.  As  her  white  hands  threaded 
the  golden  wires,  the  diamond  ring  flashed  upon  her  eye  its  ominous  splen- 
dors, and  filled  her  with  wild  emotions. 

"St.  Cecilia  called  down  an  angel  from  the  skies,"  said  one  of  her  guests, 
gazing  upon  the  gem  that  coruscated  upon  her  finger,  "but  you  seem  to 
have  drawn  one  of  the  stars  of  heaven  from  its  home  in  the  skies,  to  sparkle 
upon  your  hand.  There  must  be  a  magic  in  that  ring,  for  never  did  your 
harp  discourse  such  witching  music." 

Blanche  turned  away  her  face  to  hide  her  conscious  blushes,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  words  of  Elsie,  foolish  and  superstitious  as  they  were,  occurred 
to  her,  and  the  roseate  cloud  melted  away  in  the  whiteness  of  snow. 


280  WOMEN"    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

One  by  one  her  guests  departed,  and  she  was  left  alone.  She  listened  to 
the  echo  of  their  departing  footsteps,  till  the  stillness  of  death  pervaded  the 
apartment.  She  could  distinctly  hear  the  quick  beatings  of  her  heart,  and 
her  robe  fluttered  as  visibly  over  its  palpitations  as  the  azure  curtains  rustling 
in  the  soft  breath  of  night. 

"  Why  do  I  linger  here  ?"  said  she,  looking  out  into  the  calm  majesty  and 
loveliness  of  a  cloudless  evening.  "  I  will  not  remain,  as  if  seeking  an  inter- 
view with  one  whose  fascinations,  I  feel,  I  never  could  resist.  Where  there 
is  mystery  there  is  always  danger.  I  thank  my  guardian  angel  for  whisper- 
ing this  caution  to  my  heart." 

At  this  moment  something  flew  like  a  light-winged  bird  by  her  cheek, 
and  fell  rustling  at  her  feet.  It  was  something  enveloped  in  a  soft,  white 
tissue.  She  opened  it  and  beheld  her  own  faded  rose ;  while  she  gazed  with 
mingled  shame  and  delight  on  the  sweet  but  wilted  token,  the  soft  sound  of 
entering  footsteps  met  her  ear,  and  the  tall,  black-masked  stranger  stood 
before  her. 

She  no  longer  feared  him.  She  even  welcomed  his  approach- with  a 
strange  rapture,  that  sent  the  warm  blood  bounding  through  her  veins  and 
eddying  in  her  cheeks.  He  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  his  low,  sweet,  mellow 
voice  uttered  words  of  wondrous  fascination.  She  listened  like  one  entranced, 
forgetting  the  fate  of  Zelica,  and  the  doom  of  Leonora.  Indeed,  had  she 
known  that  the  same  dark  destiny  awaited  her,  she  could  not  have  broken 
the  spell  that  enthralled  her.  For  hours  he  lingered  at  her  side,  while  his 
eyes,  like  stars  shining  through  a  midnight  cloud,  were  beaming  with  mys- 
terious splendor  upon  her  brow.  Her  will  bowed  before  his  mighty  will,  and, 
ere  she  was  aware  of  the  act,  she  had  sealed  her  heart's  warrant  for  life  or 
death.  She  had  consented  to  follow  him  to  the  altar,  and  unveil  with  her 
rash  and  daring  hand  the  brow  now  covered  with  so  dark  an  eclipse. 

"  You  love  me,"  cried  the  stranger,  while  his  voice  trembled  with  ecstasy  ; 
"  you  love  me  with  that  pure,  spiritual  love,  which,  born  on  earth,  is  but  a 
type  of  an  immortal  wedlock.  You  will  love  me  still,  whatever  be  the  fea- 
tures this  gloomy  mask  conceals.  Be  they  those  of  a  fiend,  you  will  not  love 
me  less ;  be  they  those  of  an  angel,  you  will  not  love  me  more." 

And  Blanche  bowed  her  fair  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  was  constrained  to 
utter : 

"  Angel  or  fiend,  I  must  love  thee  still." 

"  To-morrow,  then,  at  this  hour,  I  shall  come  and  claim  thee  for  my 
bride.     Nay,  speak  not  of  delay,  for  my  destiny  must  be  fulfilled.     You  shall 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  281 

know   when   I   am  near,   but  not  by  this  faded  token.     The  pledge  of  my 
coming  shall  breathe  of  life,  and  joy,  and  hope." 

Pressing  her  hand  gracefully  to  his  heart,  he  disappeared,  while  Blanche 
trembled  and  wept  at  the  remembrance  of  the  vow  she  had  pUghted. 
Released  from  the  magic  of  his  presence,  she  saw  her  rashness,  her  madness, 
and  infatuation,  in  their  true  light.  She  felt  she  was  rushing  blindfold  to  the 
verge  of  perdition.  She  was  terrified  at  the  intensity  of  her  emotions. 
Better  were  it  for  her  heart  to  remain  in  the  torpor  over  which  it  had  been 
mourning,  than  awake  to  a  sense  of  life  so  keen  as  almost  to  amount  to  agony. 
She  was  like  the  blind  suddenly  restored  to  sight,  with  a  flood  of  noonday 
glory  pouring  on  the  lately  darkened  vision.  She  was  fainting  from  excess 
of  light. 

Softly  she  ascended  to  her  chamber,  so  as  not  to  arouse  the  sleeping 
Elsie,  whose  remarks  she  now  dreaded  to  hear  ;  but  so  light  were  her  slum- 
bers, they  vanished  at  the  soft  rustle  of  Blanche's  muslin  robe. 

"  I  saw  him  ! "  she  cried,  dispersing  the  mist  of  sleep  from  her  eyelids ;  "  I 
saw  him  from  the  window  as  he  entered,  and  I  have  been  praying  the  blessed 
Virgin  ever  since,  to  shield  you  from  harm." 

"  You  must  have  been  praying  in  your  sleep,  then,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Oh,  dear  mistress,  do  not  see  him  again.  You  will  find  he  is  some  mur- 
derer who  has  a  brand  on  his  forehead  " 

"  Stop,  Elsie,"  cried  the  shuddering  Blanche.  "  It  is  slander.  I  will  not 
permit  it." 

"  And  besides,"  continued  the  persevering  girl,  "  I  dare  say  the  barbarians 
have  cut  off  his  nose  and  cropped  his  ears  into  the  bargain.  People  never 
hide  their  beauty  under  a  mask." 

"  Elsie,  leave  my  room  if  you  cannot  be  silent,"  said  Blanche,  with  rising 
courage. 

Elsie  obeyed  her,  but  muttered  something  ahout  sulphur  and  hoofs,  as  she 
dosed  the  door  behind  her. 

"How  very  impertinent  Elsie  is  growing!"  cried  Blanche,  throwing  her- 
self weeping  upon  the  bed.  "  But  how  can  I  expect  to  retain  the  respect  of 
a  maid,  when  I  have  forfeited  my  own  self-esteem?  Alas!  what  if  her  sur- 
mises be  true?  What  if  the  brand  of  indelible  disgrace  be  stamped  upon 
that  brow  where  I  have  imagined  more  than  mortal  beauty  dwells?  What 
if,  instead  of  a  nose  which  Phidias  might  have  taken  as  a  model  for  one  of 
the  gods  of  Greece,  there  should  be  only  a  frightful  cavity,  a  horrible  dis- 
figurement!" 


282  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Recoiling  at  the  awful  picture  Elsie's  fertile  imagination  had  conjured, 
she  spread  her  hands  before  her  face,  to  shut  out  a  vision  so  appalling.  It 
was  strange — in  his  presence  she  had  a  perfect  conviction  that  his  mask  con- 
cealed the  face  of  an  angel,  while  in  his  absence  the  conviction  faded,  and  the 
most  terrific  fancies  usurped  its  place. 

"O,  that  I  could  recall  my  fatal  pledge!"  she  cried  to  herself,  as  she 
tossed  upon  her  restless  couch.  "But  it  is  given,  and  be  it  for  weal  or  woe, 
I  must  abide  by  the  result." 

The  next  evening  Mrs.  Charming,  the  kind  maternal  friend  whom 
Blanche  had  so  dearly  loved,  remained  by  her,  as  if  drawn  toward  her  by 
some  unusual  attraction.  Never  had  she  been  so  tender,  so  affectionate. 
Blanche  gazed  upon  her  with  bitter  self-reproach,  thinking  how  ill  she  was 
about  to  requite  her  guardian's  cares.  She  longed  to  throw  her  arms  around 
her  neck,  reveal  her  secret,  and  pray  her  to  save  her  from  the  delusions  of 
her  own  heart. 

"  I  fear  you  are  not  well,  my  sweet  child,"  said  the  lady,  in  soothing 
accents.  "  Indeed,  I  have  noticed,  all  day,  that  you  have  looked  feverish  and 
ill.  Do  not  sit  in  the  night  air,  in  that  thin  dress,  too.  Why,  my  dear,  you 
are  dressed  like  a  bride.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  going  abroad  to- 
night.    I  fear  this  life  of  pleasure  will  wilt  the  roses  of  your  youth  " 

"  I  have  promised  to  go,"  she  said,  avoiding  the  glances  of  her  friend, 
"  and  I  cannot  break  my  word.  But  it  is  the  last  time — indeed,  it  is  the 
last." 

While  she  was  speaking,  a  white  rose-bud  fell  at  her  feet. 

"See,"  said  Mrs.  Channing,  smiling,  "see  what  the  breeze  has  blown  to 
you.  It  must  be  a  token  of  happiness — fit  emblem  of  your  beauty  and  inno- 
cence." 

"  I><>  you  think  it  a  token  of  happiness?"  cried  Blanche,  eagerly  gather- 
ing up  the  well-known  signal.  "Thank  you  for  the  words.  I  go  with  a 
lighter  heart.  Farewell,  kindest  and  best  of  friends.  Heaven  bless  you,  for 
ever  and  ever." 

Pressing  her  quivering  lips  on  the  placid  forehead  she  might  never  again 
behold,  she  glided  from  the  room.  She  dreaded  meeting  Elsie,  but  was  com- 
pelled to  go  to  her  chamber  for  her  mantle  and  veil,  and  there  she  encoun- 
tered her  faithful  and  remonstrating  friend.  When  Blanche,  with  a  face  as 
pale  as  marble,  threw  her  mantle  over  her  shoulders,  and  cast  a  light  veil 
over  her  golden  locks,  Elsie  seemed  to  divine  her  purpose,  and  entreated  her 
to  remain. 


CAROLINE    LEE    IIENTZ.  283 

"  Oh,  it  is  like  a  bride  you  are  dressed,"  she  cried,  "with  those  pearls  on 
your  neck  and  arms,  and  that  beautiful  white  rose-bud  on  your  bosom." 

Blanche  could  not  leave  her  faithful  attendant  without  some  memorial  of 
her  love.     Opening  her  jewel-case,  she  took  out  a  costly  necklace  and  ring. 

"Take  these,"  she  said,  "as  a  memento  of  my  attachment,  and  as  a 
reward  for  your  fidelity.  Betray  me  not  on  your  soul's  life,  and  may  the 
blessed  Virgin  you  worship  be  propitious  to  you  as  you  are  true  to  me." 

Elsie  suffered  the  jewels  to  fall  from  her  hand,  and  casting  herself  at  the 
feet  of  Blanche,  she  wrapped  her  arms  about  her  knees,  and  implored  her, 
with  tears  and  sobs,  not  to  go  with  that  dreadful  man. 

"Release  me  !"  cried  Blanche,  ready  to  faint  witli  conflicting  emotions. 
"Delay  me  not  a  moment  longer!"  Then  snatching  her  mantle  from  her 
grasp,  and  leaving  her  prostrate  and  weeping  on  the  floor,  she  flew  down- 
stairs, through  the  open  door,  and  found  herself  in  the  arms  of  that  dark  and 
nameless  being,  to  whom  she  was  about  to  confide  herself  forever.  He  bore 
her,  almost  fainting,  into  a  carriage  that  was  waiting  at  the  gate,  and  the 
horses,  black  as  night,  started  off  at  a  furious  speed.  They  left  the  crowded 
city  far  behind  them,  and  rode  out  into  the  open  fields,  where  the  moonbeams, 
unobstructed  by  high  granite  walls,  shone  resplendently  upon  her  pallid  face 
and  the  polished  surface  of  his  enamel  mask. 

"  "Whither  are  you  bearing  me  ?"  she  faintly  asked,  as  the  small  pebbles 
flashed  fire  beneath  the  horses'  flying  hoofs. 

"  To  a  second  Eden,  where  love  immortal  blooms,"  he  answered,  folding 
her  close  to  his  heart.  Forward  they  went  with  the  same  bewildering  speed. 
The  trees  swept  by  them,  like  dark-green  spirits  in  a  rushing  dance.  Tall 
monuments,  gleaming  white  and  ghostly,  ghastly  and  cold,  shot  swiftly  by 
them,  in  the  quivering  moonshine. 

"Oh,  whither  are  you  bearing  me?"  again  she  asked,  almost  expecting 
him  to  answer : 

"See  there,  see  here,  the  moon  shines  clear — 
Hurrah,  how  swiftly  speeds  the  dead  I" 

"  I  am  bearing  you  to  the  gate  of  Heaven,"  he  replied  ;  "  for  surely  the 
house  of  God  is  such.  Far  away  in  the  deep  woods  there  is  a  Gothic  church, 
where  a  holy  priest  is  waiting  to  crown  with  his  blessing  the  purest,  deepest 
love  that  ever  bound  two  trusting  hearts  in  one." 

'•  Oh,  mine  is  all  the  trust,"  she  cried,  "  and  if  I  be  deceived,  mine  will  be 
all  the  woe." 


284  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

'■  As  never  woman  thus  loved  and  trusted,"  he  passionately  exclaimed  ; 
"  so  never  woman  was  so  supremely  hlest,  as  thou,  my  soul's  beloved,  shalt 
he!" 

With  soothing  words  and  tender  protestations  and  impassioned  vows  he 
sustained  her  spirits,  and  beguiled  the  length  of  their  moonlight  journey. 
At  last  they  beheld  the  white  walls  of  the  sacred  edifice  glimmering  through 
the  dark,  silver-edged  foliage  of  the  trees  that  embosomed  it.  The  illumi- 
nated arches  of  the  lofty  windows  told  that  his  words  were  true,  and  that 
the  holy  father  there  awaited  for  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

"Courage,  my  beloved,"  he  cried,  supporting  her  steps  into  the  vestibule, 
"  your  sublime  confidence  shall  soon  be  rewarded.  If  it  wearies,  even  now, 
I  will  restore  you  to  the  friends  you  have  quitted  for  the  stranger's  love. 
But  if  you  still  cling  to  me  with  undoubting  faith  and  triumphant  affection, 
come,  and  the  powers  of  earth  cannot  rend  us  asunder." 

Blanche  placed  her  cold  hand  in  his.  Throwing  his  arm  around  her,  he 
led  her  toward  the  illuminated  altar,  where,  clothed  in  his  white  robes,  with 
the  crucifix  suspended  on  his  breast,  the  man  of  God  was  standing.  Blanche 
sank  upon  her  knees,  and  bowed  her  head,  till  it  touched  the  marble  steps  of 
the  altar.  At  this  moment,  as  if  touched  by  invisible  hands,  the  deep  notes 
of  the  organ  swelled  grandly  and  solemnly  on  the  ear.  They  gradually  rose 
to  the  full  altitude  of  the  lofty  dome,  when,  rolling  along  the  arch,  gathering 
volume  as  they  rolled,  they  burst  over  the  altar  in  a  thunder-peal  of  melody, 
then  murmured  softly  away,  only  to  swell  again  in  the  same  magnificent  epi- 
thalamium.  The  illuminated  church,  the  holy  priest,  the  consecrated  altar, 
and  the  grand  and  solemn  music,  filled  the  soul  of  Blanche  with  devout 
enthusiasm.  Her  confidence  in  her  mysterious  bridegroom  deepened  and 
strengthened.  He  knelt  at  her  side,  with  her  throbbing  hand  clasped  in  his. 
The  last  notes  of  the  organ  reverberated  on  the  ear,  and  the  priest  com- 
menced the  solemn  ceremony.  So  intense  was  her  agitation,  that  she  did 
not  even  hear  the  name  of  the  unknown  being — that  name  that  was  to  be 
henceforth  her  own.  She  did  not  know  when  the  rite  was  ended,  but  con- 
tinued with  her  head  bowed,  and  her  loosened  hair  sweeping  the  consecrated 
marble. 

"  And  now,  my  beloved,"  said  the  divine  voice  that  had  with  its  first 
accent  captivated  her  soul,  "  the  hour  is  come  which  releases  me  from  the 
vow  breathed  in  the  presence  of  this  man  of  God.  Remove  the  mask,  and 
behold  the  features  which,  whatever  form  they  bear,  are  beaming  with 
immortal  love  for  thee." 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  285 

Slowly  and  tremblingly  Blanche  raised  her  head,  and  turned  toward  him, 
as  he  knelt  on  the  lower  steps  of  the  altar,  and  bent  till  his  sable  locks 
waved  against  her  snowy  dress. 

And  now  the  moment  was  arrived  to  which  she  had  looked  forward  with 
such  wild  curiosity,  with  such  unutterable  hope  and  dread.  Her  hand 
refused  to  obey  the  impulse  of  her  panting  heart.  It  fell  almost  lifeless  on 
his  shoulder,  and  a  thick  mist  darkened  her  sight. 

'•  Fear  not,  my  daughter,"  said  the  deep  voice  of  the  priest.  ''Put  your 
trust  in  Heaven,  and  shrink  not  from  the  destiny  thou  hast  chosen,  whatever 
it  may  be.  As  faith  is  the  most  sublime  of  Christian  virtues,  so  it  is  the 
most  glorious  proof  of  love." 

These  words  issuing  from  the  sacerdotal  lips,  that  had  so  lately  blessed 
her  as  a  bride,  gave  her  a  momentary  strength.  Her  fingers  passed  with 
lingering  touch  through  the  luxuriant  locks  that  waved  over  the  ribbon 
which  confined  the  mask.  As  she  unloosed  the  knot,  and  he  gradually  began 
to  raise  his  bending  head,  before  she  had  caught  one  glimpse  of  those  mys- 
terious features,  overcome  by  the  weight  of  concentrated  emotions,  she  fell 
lifeless  on  his  bosom. 

When  she  recovered  her  senses,  she  found  herself  lying  quietly  on  the 
carpet  of  her  boudoir,  by  the  side  of  her  overturned  harp,  whose  strings 
were  yet  vibrating  from  the  sudden  fall.  Elsie  was  standing  over  her  with 
a  lamp  in  her  hand,  in  convulsions  of  laughter. 

"  I  would  not  be  laughing  if  you  were  hurt,"  she  cried,  setting  down  her 
lamp  and  assisting  the  prostrate  beauty,  as  well  as  her  shaking  muscles  would 
allow,  to  resume  an  upright  position.  "  You  have  had  a  pleasant  nap  of  it, 
leaning  against  your  harp.  It  tumbled  before  I  could  catch  you,  or  you 
would  not  be  lying  here." 

'"  Oh,"  cried  Blanche,  sitting  up  and  rubbing  her  eyes,  '"if  I  had  only  had 
one  glimpse  of  his  face!" 

DE  LAPwA'S  BRIDE. 

Ere  yet  the  curtain  lifts  its  veiling  fold, 
Now  o'er  scenes  of  tragic  art  uuroll'd, 
The  eye  of  hope  this  brilliant  ring  surveys, 
Ami  draws  prophetic  radiance  from  the  gaze. 
Thr  third  sad  sister  of  the  seraph  choir, 
Who  wake  the  music  of  the  deep-toned  lyre, 


280  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

This  night,  presiding  genius  of  the  Stage, 

Has  searched  the  hoarded  treasures  of  an  age. 

Rich  in  the  dearest  memories  of  earth — 

In  chivalry,  devotion,  valor,  worth — 

She  comes,  with  thorns  upon  her  pallid  brow, 

Though  thorns  and  sorrow  lurk  beneath  their  glow. 

The  passions  follow  darkly  in  her  train, 

Wild  as  the  billows  of  the  storm-swept  main ; 

But  reason,  Nature,  vindicate  their  cause, 

And  conscience  writhes  o'er  its  insulted  laws. 

Who  has  not  felt,  when  reeling  o'er  the  verge 

Of  crimes,  to  which  temptations  madly  urge, 

An  antepast  of  that  undying  sting — 

That  quenchless  fire,  prepared  for  guilt's  dread  king ; 

And  shrunk,  as  if  the  Lord's  avenging  wrath 

Had  placed  upbraiding  phantoms  in  their  path  ? 

To  paint  these  agonies,  to  show  the  wreck 

Of  Mind's  proud  sovereignty  when  on  the  neck 

Of  unthroned  reason  Passion  victor  stands, 

While  pale  Remorse  in  stealth  its  victim  brands! 

This  is  the  empire  of  the  heaven-born  maid — 

May  no  polluting  steps  or  realms  invade. 

Never  may  that  celestial  fire,  which  erst 

From  Pindus'  mount  in  flames  of  glory  burst, 

Descend  to  gild  that  scene  where  vice  maintains 

Its  sorcery  o'er  the  slave  within  its  chains — 

Where  genius  forms  unholy  league  with  fame, 

And  makes  itself  immortal  by  its  shame. 

Ye  sons  of  Erudition !   classic  band ! 

Rulers  of  taste !  in  this  unshackled  land — 

All  that  ye  can,  in  candor,  truth  accord, 

To  this  new  candidate  of  fame  award. 

Man's  own  justice  may  relax  its  frown, 

When  woman  aims  to  win  the  laurel  crown. 

Till  now,  the  smiles  of  partial  friends  have  warm'd 

The  germs  of  fancy,  their  fond  love  disarm'd 

Relenting  criticism — veil'd  in  mist 

Each  venial  error.     In  the  crowded  list 


CAROLINE    LEE    I1ENTZ.  287 

Of  Bards,  adventurous  champion  now  she  waits, 

As  stood  the  fabled  Sylph  at  Eden's  gates, 

Trembling  to  know  if  hers  were  that  bright  gift, 

Of  power  the  everlasting  bars  to  lift. 

Daughters  of  loveliness!   we  turn  to  you — 

Stars  of  the  arch,  fair  bending  on  the  view  ; 

Tis  yours  to  kindle  that  propitious  beam 

Whose  visioned  radiance  gilds  the  poet's  dream. 

To  you  a  sister,  in  the  bard,  appeals 

For  all  that  woman  most  devoutly  feels, 

Most  dearly  prizes — pure  spontaneous  praise. 

Oh !  when  some  unseen  hand  these  folds  shall  raise, 

May  some  kind  genius  o'er  the  walls  preside, 

And  more  than  welcome  great  Be  Lards  Bride. 


THE  SNOW  FLAKES. 

Ye're  welcome,  ye  white  and  feathery  flakes, 
That  fall  like  the  blossoms  the  summer  wind  shakes 
From  the  bending  spray — Oh,  say,  do  ye  come, 
With  tidings  to  me  from  my  far  distant  home? 

"  Our  home  is  above  in  the  depths  of  the  sky, 
In  the  hollow  of  God's  own  hand  we  lie — 
We  are  fair,  we  are  pure,  our  birth  is  divine — 
Say,  what  can  we  know  of  thee,  or  of  thine?" 

I  know  that  ye  dwell  in  kingdoms  of  air — 

I  know  ye  are  heavenly,  pure,  and  fair ; 

But  oft  have  I  seen  ye,  far  travellers,  roam, 

By  the  cold  blast  driven,  round  my  northern  home. 

"  We  roam  over  mountain,  and  valley,  and  sea, 

We  hang  our  pale  wreaths  on  tin'  leafless  tree: 

The  heralds  of  wisdom  and  mercy  we  go, 

And  perchance  the  far  home  of  thy  childhood  we  know. 


288  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  We  roam,  and  our  fairy  track  we  leave, 
While  for  nature  a  winding-sheet  we  weave — 
A  cold,  white  shroud,  that  shall  mantle  the  gloom, 
Till  her  Maker  recalls  her  to  glory  and  bloom." 

Oh,  foam  of  the  shoreless  ocean  above ! 

I  know  thou  descendest  in  mercy  and  love  : 

All  chill  as  thou  art,  yet  benign  is  thy  birth, 

As  the  dew  that  impearls  the  green  bosom  of  Earth. 

And  I've  thought  as  I've  seen  thy  tremulous  spray, 

Soft  curling  like  mist  on  the  branches  lay 

In  bright  relief  on  the  dark  blue  sky, 

That  thou  meltedst  in  grief  when  the  sun  came  nigh. 

"  Say,  whose  is  the  harp  whose  echoing  song 
Breathes  wild  on  the  gale  that  wafts  us  along? 
The  moon,  the  flowers,  the  blossoming  tree, 
Wake  the  minstrel's  lyre,  they  are  brighter  than  we." 

The  flowers  shed  their  fragrance,  the  moonbeams  their  light, 
Over  scenes  never  veil'd  by  your  drap'ry  of  white ; 
But  the  clime  where  I  first  saw  your  downy  flakes, 
My  own  native  clime  is  far  dearer  than  all. 

Oh,  fair,  when  ye  clothed  in  their  wintry  mail, 
The  elms  that  o'ershadow  my  home  in  the  vale, 
Like  warriors  they  looked,  as  they  bowed  in  the  storm, 
With  the  tossing  plume  and  the  towering  form. 

Ye  fade,  ye  melt — I  feel  the  warm  breath 
Of  the  redolent  South  o'er  the  desolate  heath — 
But  tell  me,  ye  vanishing  pearls  where  ye  dwell, 
When  the  dew-drops  of  Summer  bespangle  the  dell  ? 

"  We  fade — we  melt  into  crystalline  spheres — 
We  weep,  for  we  pass  through  a  valley  of  tears  ; 
But  onward  to  glory,  away  to  the  sky — 
In  the  hollow  of  God's  own  hand  we  lie." 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  289 


A  MARTIAL  SONG. 

Know  ye  the  place  where  the  white  walls  rise, 

Mid  the  waves  of  ocean  gleaming? 
Where  the  guardian  ramparts  meet  the  eyes, 

And  the  starry  flag  is  streaming? 

Know  ye  the  spot  where  at  evening's  close, 

And  at  morning's  early  breaking, 
The  music  of  battle  inspiringly  flows, 

The  rock-born  echoes  waking  ? 

Oh  !  fair  is  that  place,  where  the  sunbeams  rest 

In  their  glory  on  the  billows ; 
Or  the  moon  on  her  native  ocean's  breast, 

Her  silvery  forehead  pillows. 

And  fair  are  those  walla  with  the  banner  that  floats, 

'  To  the  waves  our  triumphs  telling  ; 
And  sweet  are  those  clear  and  warlike  notes, 
On  the  ocean  breezes  swelling. 

But  fairer  still  are  the  glance  and  smile, 
That  beamed  there  a  kindly  greeting ; 

And  sweeter  the  heart-born  tones  the  while, 
Our  own  glad  accents  meeting. 

In  the  fortress  of  war,  the  home  of  the  bold, 

The  spirit  of  love  is  residing ; 
And  dove-wings  furl,  with  a  downy  fold, 

Where  the  eagle  in  power  is  presiding. 

We  stood  on  the  ramparts,  and  saw  the  white  surge 
Roll  onward,  then  hoarsely  retreating ; 

Or  the  Indian  his  bark  o'er  the  blue  waters  urge, 
Some  forest  descant  repeating. 
19 


290  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

When  evening  in  raiments  of  silver  came  on, 
How  calm  was  the  current  that  hore  us ; 

Around  us,  like  diamonds,  the  clear  ripples  shone, 
While  the  heavens  bent  glistening  o'er  us. 

But  the  ray  we  loved  was  flashing  afar, 

In  fitful,  revolving  glory  ; 
It  welcomed  us  hack,  like  a  beacon  star, 

That  watched  o'er  the  battlements  hoary. 

Oh,  when,  lonely  sentinel,  when  wilt  thou  beam 
On  our  path  to  that  gem  of  the  ocean  ; 

Where  life  bore  the  brightness  that  visits  our  dream, 
And  time  had  of  snow-flakes  the  motion  ? 


SALLY   ROCHESTER    FORD. 

This  writer  has  a  distinctive  place  among  Southern  authors, 
as  a  leading  light  of  the  Baptist  denomination,  and  a  subtle  and 
effective  interpreter  of  its  peculiar  tenets. 

She  was  horn  at  Rochester  Springs,  Boyle  County,  Kentucky, 
in  1828.  Her  father,  Col.  J.  Henry  Rochester,  is  the  grand- 
nephew  of  Nathaniel  Kochester,  who  laid  out  the  city  of 
Rochester,  New  York.  The  branch  of  the  family  from  which 
Mrs.  Ford  descended,  emigrated  and  settled  in  Kentucky  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  last  century,  while  the  country  was  yet  a  com- 
parative wilderness. 

The  Rochesters  are  not  unknown  to  English  history,  and 
they  still  confess  to  a  shade  of  pride  as  they  trace  their  lineage 
and  recount  their  ancestry.  This  feeling,  doubtless,  has  had  its 
stimulating  influence  in  developing  the  gifts,  and  bringing  into 
distinction  the  name  of  our  author. 

Sbe  was  only  in  her  fourth  year,  and  the  eldest  of  three 
daughters,  when  she  was  deprived  by  death  of  a  mother's  care. 
Tbe  loss,  however,  was  providentially  supplied  by  the  judicious 
supervision  of  her  maternal  grandmother,  a  woman  of  great 
mental  and  physical  vigor,  who  devoted  herself  to  her  grand- 
children with  true  motherly  interest.  Accustomed  herself  to 
out-door  exercise,  the  management  of  a  farm  and  the  superin- 
tendence of  a  large  family,  and  being  withal  a  woman  of  highly 
religious  character,  she  appreciated  and  enforced  the  kind  of 
training  which  is  now  apparent  in  the  strong  characteristics  of 
our  writer. 


292  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Mrs.  Ford,  with  her  sister  Cassandra,  was  educated  at 
"  Georgetown  Female  Seminary,"  Kentucky,  an  institution, 
under  the  conduct  of  Prof.  J.  E.  Farnam,  which  has  done  much 
for  the  intellectual  and  religious  culture  of  that  region.  From 
the  first  she  gave  evidence  of  talent,  and,  in  1847,  graduated 
with  the  highest  honors  of  her  class. 

In  the  spring  of  1848,  she  made  a  public  profession  of  the 
Christian  religion,  and  was  baptized  by  the  Eev.  D.  E.  Camp- 
bell, President  of  Georgetown  College,  Kentucky,  who  very 
cordially  provides  these  data. 

Her  advantages  for  acquiring  biblical  knowledge  were 
rather  unusual.  She  was  a  lover  of  books  and  a  close  student. 
Her  uncle,  Eev.  J.  K.  Pitts,  occupied  an  adjacent  farm,  and 
gave  her  free  access  to  his  library  and  counsel.  She  cultivated 
the  acquaintance  of  clergymen,  especially  those  of  her  own 
denomination,  and  took  an  intelligent  and  deep  interest  in  the 
study  of  the  distinguishing  principles  of  their  theology.  In  this 
way  she  laid  the  foundation  of  the  skill  with  whioh  she  has 
since  defended  the  faith  of  her  people. 

In  March,  1855,  she  married  the  Kev.  S.  H.  Ford,  of  Louis- 
ville, Ky.  He  was  at  that  time  pastor  of  the  East  Baptist 
church  in  that  city,  and  connected  with  the  denominational 
press  of  the  State.  Shortly  after  their  marriage,  he  became  sole 
proprietor  of  the  "  Christian  Expository,"  a  religious  monthly, 
which  he  has  since  conducted  with  much  success. 

At  this  point  commenced  Mrs.  Ford's  career  as  a  writer. 
She  contributed  short  articles  to  the  "  Eepository "  until  she 
acquired  ease  and  confidence,  then,  encouraged  by  her  husband, 
began  the  serial  of  "  Grace  Truman,"  which  was  brought  out 
in  the  monthly  numbers  of  that  magazine.  This  story  at  once 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  public.  The  "  Eepository,"  went 
up  rapidly,  and  Mrs.  Ford's  reputation  as  a  denominational 
writer  was  gradually  established. 


SALLY  ROCHESTER  FORD.  293 

In  1857,  this  work  was  published  by  Sheldon  &  Co.,  of  New 
York,  and  in  a  short  time  reached  a  sale  of  thirty  thousand 
copies.  As  a  lucid  and  forcible  presentation  of  distinctive 
tenets,  it  has,  and  must  ever  hold,  an  important  place  in  reli- 
gious literature. 

During  the  present  year,  Mrs.  Ford  has  given  to  the  world 
another  book,  entitled  "  Mary  Bunyan."  In  this  volume  she 
traces,  with  graphic  power,  the  persecution  and  intolerance  by 
which  the  author  of  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  was  prepared  for  his 
immortal  work.  It  carries  in  itself  all  the  elements  of  success, 
and  cannot  fail  to  achieve  it. 

Besides  these  labors,  Mrs.  Ford  shares  largely  in  the  edito- 
rial charge  of  the  "  Repository,"  and  is,  in  every  respect,  her 
husband's  faithful  coadjutor.  Combining,  also,  the  best  qua- 
lities of  the  social,  domestic,  and  Christian  woman,  she  esta- 
blishes her  "  right,"  by  proving  her  abilty,  to  occupy  a  wide  and 
comprehensive  "  sphere." 


MY    FATHER'S    WILL. 

I  have  lately  come  into  the  possession  of  an  inheritance.  It  was  left,  me 
by  my  father  in  his  will.  My  father  is  in  a  far  distant  country.  I  am  every 
day  hastening  to  this  glorious  home  where  my  father  is.  I  say  glorious 
home ;  and  so  it  is.  I  have  not  seen  it  yet,  but  my  father  has  said  it,  and  I 
believe.  The  walls  are  of  precious  stones,  and  the  gates  thereof  are  of  pearl, 
and  the  streets  of  pure  gold.  Sometimes,  in  thinking  of  this  home,  I  grow 
almost  impatient,  because  I  am  so  long  a  sojourner  here.  But  I  must  wait 
patiently  for  my  father  to  send  for  me.  He  doeth  all  things  well.  When  all 
things  are  ready — when  the  glorious  mansion  which  he  has  gone  to  prepare 
for  me  is  complete,  then  he  will  send  for  me.  I  shall  then  go  to  be  with  him 
forever. 

I  have  never  seen  my  father ;  but  I  know  he  is  my  father.  I  know  it 
from  several  reasons.  And  the  bestowal  of  this  last  estate,  into  the  posses- 
sion of  which  I  have  so  recently  entered,  is  unmistakable  evidence  of  it.     If 


294  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

I  had  doubted  it  before,  I  could  not  now.  To  do  so  would  be  to  doubt  my 
father's  word,  and  my  father  never  lies.  With  him  there  is  no  variableness 
nor  shadow  of  turning.     All  of  his  words  are  "  Yea  and  Amen." 

I  have  often  wondered  why  my  father  left  such  an  estate  as  this  to  his 
children — have  tried  again  and  again  to  solve  this  question.  And  after  all 
my  endeavors  I  can  only  conclude,  "  Even  so,  Father,  for  thus  it  seemeth 
good  in  thy  sight."  My  father,  no  doubt,  knows  that  it  is  necessary  for  his 
children  that  they  have  this  inheritance,  and,  therefore,  before  he  left  this 
exile  world,  he  sealed  it  up  as  a  part  of  his  will  and  testament  to  them.  It 
is  needful  for  their  good  here,  and  for  a  full  preparation  for  entering  upon 
that  inheritance  which  is  incorruptible,  undefiled,  and  fadeth  not  away.  My 
father  has  sufficient  reasons  for  all  he  does.  He  is  infinite  in  justice,  wisdom, 
and  love. 

Before  my  father  departed  to  go  into  the  far  country  where  he  now  is,  he 
willed  to  me,  his  child,  several  estates,  various  in  character  and  value;  and 
the  parchments  on  which  these  last  testaments  were  written  were  sealed  up 
with  different-colored  seals,  each  seal  indicative  of  the  character  of  the  estate 
the  parchment  bestowed.  I  have  examined  each  roll  and  seal  closely,  and  I 
find  they  all  bear  the  impress  of  my  father's  seal  of  state.  I  cannot  be  mis- 
taken about  this.  My  father  is  too  wise  and  just  to  leave  his  children  in  the 
least  uncertainty  with  regard  to  anything  he  would  have  them  know. 

My  father  has  not  only  left  these  various  inheritances,  but  he  has  also 
wisely  ordered  the  times  at  which  I  shall  enter  into  their  possession.  But 
these  times,  in  his  wisdom  and  love,  he  has  kept  hidden  from  my 
view. 

Many  of  the  parchment-rolls,  with  their  respective-colored  seals,  have 
been  opened,  and  I  have  immediately  entered  upon  the  possession  of  the 
estates  they  have  conferred  on  me.  And  they  have  been  pleasant  inheri- 
tances— goodly  lands,  flowing  with  milk  and  honey.  No  nectar,  no  ambrosia 
could  equal  the  glorious  repasts  which  I  have  enjoyed  from  my  father's 
liberal  hand.  My  father  has  been  very  kind  to  me.  I  have  often  thought  he 
favored  me  above  most  of  his  children.  True,  my  possessions  have  not  been 
large,  compared  with  the  standard  of  this  world,  but  then  there  has  always 
been  such  glorious  sunshine  on  my  estates — such  sweet  music  ever  sounding 
in  my  ears,  and  such  glad,  happy  faces  always  around  me,  my  cup  of  joy 
has  been  full.  I  have  tried  to  feel  very  thankful  for  all  these  blessed  gifts, 
and  while  I  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  them,  I  thought  I  was  grateful.  Alas  ! 
alas !  what  gratitude. 


SALLY  ROCHESTER  FORD.  295 

In  the  archives  of  my  father's  house,  where  his  wills  of  his  children  are 
kept,  I  have  often  seen  one  marked  for  me,  and  sealed  with  a  black  seal.  It 
bore  his  signet,  therefore  I  could  not  but  know  it  was  genuine.  As  I  have 
said,  I  have  often  seen  it  among  the  deeds  of  other  estates.  I  never  liked  to 
look  at  it,  or  think  upon  it,  and  somehow  I  always  hoped  that  perhaps  my 
father  would  never  have  it  opened.  I  knew  the  title  was  to  an  estate  in  the 
valley  of  Baca.  I  knew,  too,  this  valley  of  Baca  was  a  destitute  region,  a 
land  of  bitterness  and  drought.  I  had  read  of  it,  and  I  had  seen  some  of  my 
father's  children  who  had  been  on  their  estates  in  this  valley. 

I  often  wondered  if  my  father  would  ever  bid  me  go  and  dwell  there.  I 
knew  he  was  all  love,  and  as  he  had  always  been  so  lavish  in  his  blessings  to 
me,  I  have  concluded  he  intended  to  spare  me  this  great  trial.  Blind  I  was, 
and  slow  of  heart  to  believe.  But  whenever  the  fear  came  over  me,  I  turned 
shudderingly  from  the  view ;  and  often  I  have  prayed,  "  If  it  be  possible, 
Father,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me." 

Sometimes  I  have  feared  this  black  seal  would  be  broken,  and  then  I  have 
been  filled  with  dreadful  apprehension.  Then  I  shuddered,  and  drew  back 
from  the  prospect.  My  faith  grew  faint,  my  heart  chill,  and  I  was  almost 
ready  to  doubt  all  good.  But  knowing  that  my  father,  though  unseen  by 
me,  could  hear  my  petition,  I  have  gone  away  alone,  and  besought  my  father 
to  spare  me  this  trial.  Sometimes,  again,  when  I  have  been  in  the  happy 
possession  of  my  goodly  heritage,  I  have  felt  that  my  father  was  too  merri, 
ful  ever  to  command  me  or  his  agents  to  break  that  black-seal  roll.  1 
knew  he  was  a  kind  father,  and  would  not  willingly  afflict  me.  And  1 
could  see  no  reason  why  I  should  ever  dwell  in  the  valley  of  Baca.  Was  1 
not  my  father's  obedient  child  ? 

Thus  flattering  myself,  I  had  ceased  to  dread  the  opening  of  the  black 
seal  parchment  roll.  Indeed,  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  it  was  among 
my  father's  testaments  to  me. 

But  my  father  is  never  mistaken  with  regard  to  the  good  of  his  chil- 
dren. He  knows  all  things — sees  the  end  from  the  beginning.  He  well 
knew,  long  before  I  was  a  pilgrim,  what  would  be  needful  for  me  in 
this  country  where  I  now  sojourn;  therefore  he  left  this  dreaded  will. 
And  he  knew,  too,  just  when  it  was  best  for  me  it  should  be  opened, 
and  long  ago  he  gave  his  agent  direction  concerning  it.  But  I  did  not 
know  it.  I  had  not  watched  and  prayed  as  my  father  had  commanded, 
else  might  I  have  known  more  of  his  will  concerning  me.  And  then  I 
should  not  have  been  so  distressed  when  this  seal  was  broken. 


296  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

I  have  been  dwelling  for  some  months  in  this  valley  of  Baca — this 
land  of  bitterness. 

But  I  must  tell  you  something  of  my  removal  thither.  I  was  in  pos- 
session  of  the  last  estate  my  father,  as  yet,  had  ever  bestowed  upon  me. 
I  was  very,  very  happy.  And  thought,  too,  that  I  was  accomplishing  his 
will  according  to  his  written  directions.  I  thought  I  was  endeavoring 
with  all  my  power  to  carry  out  his  command,  endeavoring  to  labor  in 
his  vineyard.  And  I  now  feel  this  sore  trial  is  anticipative  rather  than 
retrospective,  to  prepare  me  for  what  is  to  come,  rather  than  to  chastise 
me  for  what  is  past.  I  feel  so,  not  because  I  am  good,  but  because  my 
father  is  good. 

One  day,  in  the  very  midst  of  my  happiness,  and  when  I  was  least 
expecting  such  a  thing,  there  came  suddenly  to  me  a  messenger  to  tell  me 
that  I  must  leave  my  glorious  possessions,  and  take  up  my  abode  in  the  valley 
of  Baca. 

"It  cannot  be,"  said  I,  in  consternation,  for  fearful  forebodings  seized  my 
very  soul.  "Are  you  sure  your  message  is  true?  Are  you  not  mis- 
taken?" 

"Not  mistaken,"  he  replied,  "it  is  the  will  of  your  father." 

"The  will  of  my  father!"  I  exclaimed,  full  of  apprehension.  (The  will 
of  my  father.  I  could  not  rebel  against  it.)  "  But  how  am  I  to  know  that 
you  tell  me  is  true  ?" 

"  Here,"  said  he,  handing  me  the  parchment,  with  its  horrid  black  seal. 
"  Here,  read  for  yourself." 

I  took  it.  The  seal  was  broken.  I  opened  it  and  read:  "  Yea,  and  all 
they  who  will  live  godly  in  Christ  Jesus,  shall  suffer  persecution^ 

I  looked  at  it  closely.  There  was  no  mistake.  It  was  for  me.  I  read 
a  little  further  on.  "  My  grace  shall  be  sufficient  for  thee."  "  It  is 
enough,"  I  said,  "  I'll  ask  no  more,"  and  immediately  I  removed  to  the 
valley  of  Baca,  where  I  now  dwell. 

As  you  may  well  suppose,  when  I  first  removed  thither,  I  was  almost  in 
despair.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  not  live.  I  was  overwhelmed  by  sor- 
row. There  was  no  light,  but  blackness,  blackness,  everywhere.  Oh,  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  dark — how  deeply  dark  this  blackness  was  !  Words  are 
too  poor  to  describe  it.  I  felt  that  my  father  had  utterly  forsaken  me.  I 
felt  that  all  my  father's  children  had  forsaken  me.  Like  my  brother  Job  of 
old,  I  exclaimed,  "  The  thing  which  I  greatly  feared  has  come  upon  me,  and 
that  which  I  was  afraid  of,  is  come  unto  me.'      And  with  David,  "  My  God, 


SALLY  ROCHESTER  FORD.  297 

my  God,  why  luist  tliou  forsaken  me  ? — why  art  thou  so  far  from  helping 
me?" 

I  knew  not  whither  to  look.  My  heart  was  broken  with  grief.  My  head 
was  bowed  to  the  earth.  All  the  kind  words  of  my  father,  all  his  former 
blessings,  all  his  sure  words  of  promise — were  but  bitterness  to  me.  They 
were  sharp  arrows  that  pierced  my  soul. 

The  valley  of  Baca  I  found  a  desert-place  ;  no  pools  nor  wells  of  water, 
and  1  was  parched  with  thirst.  Neither  date  nor  fig-tree,  and  I  was  starv- 
ing with  hunger.  I  could  only  think,  and  suffer.  Remembrances  of  the 
pleasant  lands  from  which  I  had  come,  only  served  to  render  the  desolation 
and  darkness  of  the  valley  the  more  horrible.  I  tried  to  reason  with  myself. 
I  said,  "  This  is  for  my  good,  else  my  father  would  not  have  ordered  it.  I 
need  to  be  won  from  this  world.  I  need  to  be  purified  from  the  dross  of 
this  wicked  nature.  My  father  will  grant  me  deliverance  by  and  by.  I  must 
hear  it  all  patiently." 

While  I  soliloquized  thus,  two  hideous  figures,  with  dark,  dread  counte- 
nances, came  and  stood  beside  me,  and  offered  to  be  my  companions  as  long 
as  I  should  dwell  in  this  horrid  place.  They  were  Doubt  and  Despair.  I 
shrunk  back  from  their  demon  presence.  They  laughed  and  mocked  at  my 
anguish.  Doubt,  with  fiendish  delight,  whispered  in  my  ear,  "  Only  through 
the  swelling  Jordan,  which  lies  just  beyond  the  precincts  of  this  valley, 
shall  you  reach  your  father's  bosom."  Then  Despair  took  up  the  frightful 
threatening :  "  You'll  never  reach  there,"  he  shouted  with  malicious  joy. 
"  This  is  your  only  inheritance.  Your  father  has  forgotten  you.  lie  no 
longer  regards  your  cries  and  tears."  And  he  grinned  a  horrid,  ghastly  grin, 
as  I  sunk  beneath  the  hopeless  sentence. 

Oh,  my  father's  children,  never,  never  shall  I  forget  this  dark  and  trying 
hour.  If  yon  have  never  been  thus  visited,  you  cannot  appreciate  what  I 
say,  though  it  were  written  in  words  of  living  light.  And  if  you  have, 
then  I  need  not  tell  you.  You  know  it  all.  Such  seasons  are  never  for- 
gotten. 

After  a  time  these  dreadful  ministers  left  me  to  myself.  I  spared  their 
companionship,  for  I  felt  that  they  were  not  sent  by  my  father.  Then  there 
came  a  ray  of  light,  faint  and  feeble  at  first,  hut  gradually  it  served  to  light 
me  on  my  way  to  this  dark  valley.  I  knew  it  was  from  my  father,  and  I 
rejoiced  that  he  had  not  forgotten  me  in  my  low  estate.  I  remembered 
all  his  previous  promises,  and  that  he  had  said  they  were  all  "  yea  and  amen." 
Ami  when  I  remembered,  too,  that  this  heavy  affliction  had  been  appointed 


298  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

me,  and  that  I  had  been  forewarned  of  it,  I  felt  to  reproach  myself  for  my 
want  of  confidence  in  my  father's  goodness. 

When  I  had  somewhat  come  to  myself,  and  began  clearly  to  realize  my 
situation  (for  heretofore  I  was  as  one  benumbed  with  grief),  I  gave  myself 
to  prayer  and  supplication.  I  knew  my  father's  ear  was  ever  open  to  my 
cry,  though  Despair,  for  a  season,  had  made  me  believe  otherwise — that  his 
heart  was  beating  with  love  and  compassion  for  me,  and  that  for  my  good, 
but  not  willingly,  had  he  afflicted  me. 

I  asked  my  father  for  strength  ;  I  asked  him  for  guidance  ;  I  asked  him 
that  his  grace  might  perfect  me  through  suffering.  And  oftentimes,  when 
this  valley  has  been  darkest,  and  when  I  have  been  most  closely  beset  by  my 
enemies,  have  I  been  made  to  rejoice  in  my  afflictions,  knowing  that  they 
were  working  out  for  me  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory. 
I  have  had  seasons  of  darkest  trial  since  I  have  entered  upon  this  possession. 
But  then  I  have  had  seasons  of  sweet  comfort,  too,  for  I  have  felt  persuaded 
that  "neither  death,  nor  life,  nor  powers,  nor  principalities,  nor  things  pre- 
sent, nor  things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth,"  shall  ever  be  able  to  sepa- 
rate me  from  the  love  of  my  father.     All  things  are  his,  and  he  is  mine. 

I  have  oftentimes  thirsted  in  this  place,  but  of  late  this  valley  of  Baca 
hath  become  a  well ;  the  rain,  also,  filleth  the  pools.  And  I  sometimes  now 
hear  my  father's  cheering  voice,  bidding  me  faint  not.  And  day  by  day  I  am 
pressing  on  to  that  glorious  country  that  eye  hath  never  seen. 

It  may  lie  that  I  am  to  abide  here  until  I  am  called  up  to  my  inheritance 
above.  If  it  be  my  father's  will,  I  would  cheerfully  acquiesce.  It  cannot  be 
a  great  while  before  I  shall  be  called  to  my  father's  house.  Therefore,  let 
me  not  be  faint.  A  glorious  home  awaits  me,  and  when  I  shall  get  there,  all 
my  present  sorrows  shall  be  swallowed  up  in  ecstatic  bliss.  Darkness  shall 
be  exchanged  for  light;  tears  for  joy;  trial  and  suffering  for  bliss  which 
shall  never  end.  I  shall  be  forever  with  my  father,  and  he  shall  wipe  all 
tears  from  my  eyes. 


MRS.  GRAY. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  a  kind-hearted,  energetic  woman,  and  a  model  house- 
keeper. Looking  well  to  the  success  of  her  household,  and  everything  from 
garret — yes,  garret,  for  theirs  was  an  old-fashioned  country-house,  which 
boasted  of  a  garret,  not  an  attic — to  cellar,  bore  indisputable  marks  of  neat- 


SALLY  ROCHESTER  FORD.  299 

ness  and  good  order ;  not  that  straight-laced  primness  which  impresses  even 
the  most  fastidious  with  a  feeling  of  uncomfortableness  and  fear.  What  a 
pity  it  is  that  some  housekeepers  will  torment  themselves  to  death  to  make 
everybody  and  everything  about  them  unpleasant !  Always  brushing,  dust- 
ing, polishing,  and  hopelessly  miserable  whenever  a  truant  scrap  from  a 
neighbor's  scissors  finds  its  way  to  the  carpet,  until  it  is  picked  up  and 
unmistakably  committed  to  the  flames. 

The  children  of  such  a  household  are  filled  with  old-maidish  ways  before 
they  reach  their  teens;  prim,  spiritless  creatures,  destitute  of  all  naturalness, 
and  fit  only  to  talk  about  "  order  and  proprieties."  I  pity  the  mother  of 
such  walking  systems ;  my  heart  aches  for  the  children  of  such  proper 
mothers.  Rather  let  me  have  the  ringing  laugh  and  bounding  feet,  though 
that  laugh  may  reach  a  note  above  the  octave  of  propriety,  and  the  bounding 
feet  bring  home  soiled  stockings  and  untidy  shoes.  For  mercy's  sake,  let 
children  be  children  as  long  as  they  will.  Then  shall  we  see  more  men  and 
women,  and  fewer  young  ladies  of  fashion,  and  dandies  of  the  first  water; 
more  heart  and  sense,  and  less  puling  sentimentality,  and  aping  the  would- 
be-great  ;  then  would  there  be  a  pure  health  current  of  common  sense,  moral- 
ity, and  religion,  running  through  the  whole  frame-work  of  society,  giving 
to  it  vigorous  life  and  progress. 


THE  RETREAT. 

It  was  a  happy  home,  this  little  whitewashed  cottage  that  Grace  had 
named  the  "  Retreat."  Let  us  look  at  it  a  moment,  about  four  weeks  after 
it  had  become  the  habitation  of  Grace. 

Pleasantly  situated  on  an  eminence,  with  beautiful  grounds  around,  it 
stood  just  without  the  village,  of  which  it  commanded  a  fine  view.  The 
road  ran  in  sight,  but  not  near  enough  to  make  it  a  public  place ;  a  footpath 
spanned  the  meadow  that  intervened  between  it  and  Mount  Airy,  which 
could  be  seen  from  the  aouth  window  of  Grace's  room.  Behind  the  house, 
from  the  back  of  the  garden,  the  fields,  now  in  a  state  of  high  cultivation, 
trended  away  to  the  background  of  woodland  which  skirted  the  horizon.  A 
large  beech-tree,  which  in  summer  time  threw  its  shade  half  over  the  little 
front  yard.  Btood  to  the  right  as  you  approached  the  latticed  porch,  which 
had  recently  been  added.  The  few  rose-bushes,  and  cedars,  standing  equi- 
distant from  each  other,  along  the  front  fence,  had  been  robbed  of  all  super- 


300  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

fluous  growth.  And  the  lilac,  which  stood  to  the  left,  as  if  in  mimic  oppo- 
sition to  the  beech,  had  also  undergone  the  trimming  process,  and  looked  so 
fresh  and  green  as  almost  to  give  promise  of  a  second  flowering.  Newly- 
spaded  flower-beds,  with  annual  fall  flowers  just  breaking  the  mold  with 
their  tender  heads,  bordered  the  pavement.  The  garden,  too,  had  been 
ploughed,  and  planted  in  such  things  as  would  mature  before  the  coming  of 
the  frost.  Everything,  within  and  without,  gave  evidence  of  neatness  and 
thrift,  for  Grace,  though  a  very  young  housekeeper,  was  a  very  good  one; 
and  Aunt  Peggy  found  that  her  province  was  to  suggest,  rather  than  to  direct. 

The  sun  threw  a  glorious  radiance  over  meadow  and  fields,  stole  in 
through  the  open  window  and  past  the  snowy  muslin  curtain,  falling  in  a 
quiver  of  golden  arrows  at  the  feet  of  Grace,  as  she  sat  in  her  sewing-chair 
finishing  a  piece  of  floss-work.  Her  husband,  just  returned  from  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day,  for  he  yet  overlooked  his  father's  farm,  was  resting  on  the 
lounge  at  her  side,  telling  her  of  the  occurrences  of  the  day.  to  which  she 
was  listening  with  deep  interest.  The  tea-table,  with  its  stainless  cloth  and 
glistening  furniture,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  To  the  right  of  Grace 
was  her  work-stand,  on  which  rested  a  vase  of  roses  and  cedar,  to  which  had 
been  added  the  field-flowers  brought  her  by  her  husband  ;  and  the  weekly 
journal,  which  it  was  his  habit  to  read  aloud  after  the  day's  business  was 
finished,  lay  by  the  side  of  the  flower- vase.  In  the  corner  was  a  table  of 
books  and  magazines,  which  were  Grace's  companions  when  her  husband 
was  away.  Jane  was  in  the  kitchen  getting  supper;  and  old  Aunt  Peggy, 
having  seen  that  all  was  right  in  that  department,  had  gone  to  gather  up  the 
chickens  and  put  them  in  their  respective  coops  before  it  was  dark,  for  there 
was  a  mink  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood,  and  she  could  not  trust  them  in 
the  hen-house. 

Surely  into  this  little  Eden  no  serpent  will  ever  enter ;  over  this  love-lit 
dwelling  no  cloud  will  ever  gather  ! 

Grace  had  many  pleasant  visitors  to  enliven  the  hours  of  her  husband's 
absence;  for  her  gentleness  and  sincerity  had  won  for  her  numerous  friends 
in  the  village  and  country.  It  was  a  delightful  walk  to  the  "Retreat,"  and 
it  was  a  charming  place  at  which  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  when  one  was 
there.  Mrs.  Holmes  and  Fannie  often  came  to  pass  the  day  or  evening,  and 
their  kindness  and  love  to  her  in  some  measure  made  amends  for  old  Mr. 
Holmes's  ill-treatment.  He  rarely  ever  called,  ami  when  he  did,  it  was  to 
see  his  son  on  business.  His  manner  toward  Grace  continued  cold  and  for- 
bidding. 


SALLY  ROCHESTER  FORD.  301 

Could  it  be  expected  of  him  to  come  down  from  the  heights  of  his  dig- 
nity when  she  persisted  in  her  advocacy  of  such  erroneous  opinions  ?  Oh, 
no !  Not  one  jot  or  tittle  would  he  yield.  "  He  would  show  her  what  it 
was  to  hold  out  against  his  desire.  Such  obstinacy  and  narrow-mindedness 
deserved  to  be  punished  with  the  utmost  severity.  How  dared  she  oppose 
the  teachings  of  his  church,  to  withstand  the  opinions  of  the  learned  and 
wise  ?  "Was  such  presumption  ever  known  before  ?  But  he  would  bring  her 
to — yes,  that  he  would!  She  must  be  made  to  feel  the  extent  of  her  imperti- 
nence :  it  might  take  some  time  to  accomplish  it,  for  she  was  pretty  stiff- 
necked  ;  but  it  should  be  done ;  no  daughter-in-law  of  his  should  be  a 
Baptist :  he  would  not  stand  the  disgrace."  Thus  he  reasoned  with  himself, 
and  thus  he  acted. 

Grace  was  pierced  to  the  heart  by  his  treatment,  for  she  fully  understood 
his  motives ;  but  she  remembered  the  promise,  "  I  am  with  you  always," 
and  was  strengthened  to  bear  the  burden. 

Mr.  Lewis  often  came  to  sit  with  them  till  after  tea.  He  loved  the  quiet 
and  home-like  appearance  of  the  little  whitewashed  cottage.  It  was  usual 
for  him,  on  such  occasions,  to  report  his  progress  in  the  study  of  the  bap- 
tismal question,  and  to  engage  in  conversation  with  Grace  on  that  subject. 
At  such  times  Mr.  Holmes  proved  an  attentive  listener ;  laying  on  the  lounge, 
he  would  give  earnest  heed  to  what  was  being  said,  often  asking  questions, 
or  making  comments.  It  was  evident  he  was  interested,  and  was  determined 
to  avail  himself  of  Mr.  Lewis'  study  without  much  exertion  to  himself.  On 
one  occasion,  after  having  given  very  close  attention  to  his  cousin's  proof  in 
favor  of  believer's  baptism,  he  rose,  and  approaching  him,  said,  in  quite  an 
earnest  manner  : 

"I  believe,  Ed,  that  you  and  Grace  will  make  a  Baptist  of  me  yet." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added :  "  But  what  is  the  use  for  me  to  change  ? 
You  have  no  church  here,  if  I  should  be  converted  to  your  views,  for  me  to 
join  " 

"Father  Miller  has  promised  to  preach  for  us  in  "Weston  next  fall,  you 
know,  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  Grace,  catching  at  the  faintest  shadow  of  promise 
of  change  in  his  views,  "  and  you  will  then  have  an  opportunity  to  show  us 
whether  our  arguments  have  convinced  you  or  not,"  and  the  young  wife 
regarded  her  husband  with  an  expression  half  playful,  half  earnest. 

"I  shall  give  no  promises  for  the  future,  for  fear  I  shall  not  perform 
them;  we  will  wait  until  Father  Miller  shall  come,  and  then  see." 


302  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


AUNT  PEGGY  A  LOGICIAN. 

"  De  bud  is  very  bitter  to  you,  Miss  Gracey,  I  know  it  is,  chile,  but  de 
flower,  when  it  comes,  will  be  mity  sweet.  De  Lord  never  forsakes  his 
chil'ren,  blessed  be  his  name." 

"But,  Aunt  Peggy,  suppose  I  am  mistaken  in  my  belief  of  what  is  my 
duty,  you  know  God  will  never  bless  me  in  this  course;  I  cannot  expect  it. 
If  I  should  act  differently,  it  might  be  the  means  of  saving  my  husband ;  all 
of  his  friends  think  so  ;  and  oh,  Aunt  Peggy,  to  accomplish  this  I  would  make 
any  sacrifice— would  do  anything  that  is  right."  And  the  weeping  wife 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  aloud.  "  And  you  know,  Aunt 
Peggy,"  she  added,  after  the  outburst  of  her  deep  grief  had  somewhat  sub- 
sided. "  that  Baptists  look  upon  Presbyterians  as  good  Christian  people,  and 
the  children  of  God,  and  agree  with  them  on  all  the  essential  points  of  doc- 
trine. Then  why  can't  I  join  with  them  in  celebrating  an  ordinance  which 
he  has  commanded  all  of  his  followers  to  observe  ?  How  could  there  be  any 
wrong  in  my  doing  this,  Aunt  Peggy  ?" 

••  Well,  now,  Miss  Gracey,  I  will  tell  you  how  I  looks  upon  it.  It  'pears 
to  me  like  dis :  I  went  down  to  de  store  last  week  to  buy  dat  new  calico 
gown  you  was  a  making  dis  mornin',  and  arter  de  calico  was  rolled  up,  I 
untied  de  corner  of  my  handkercher  an'  gin  Massa  Ray,  Miss  Fannie's  beau, 
dare,  a  dollar ;  he  looked  at  it,  and  handed  it  back  to  me.  I  was  took  by 
surprise,  I  tells  you,  and  said,  '  Massa  Ray.  ain't  dat  good  silver  ?'  '  Yes, 
Aunt  Peggy,'  said  he,  'it  is  good  silver.'  'What do  you  mean,  den?'  says 
I ;  '  I  knows  it  is  good,  and  no  counterfeiter,  for  Fs  rung  it  more'n  a 
dozen  times,  and  it's  jes  as  elar  as  a  bell ;  why  don't  you  take  it,  Massa 
Ray?'  'It's  good  silver,  Aunt  Peggy,  excellent  stuff;'  said  he,  a  kind  a 
laughing.  '  Well,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  mean,'  says  I, 
growin'  more  an'  more  puzzled;  'if  it  is  gennywine,  what  is  de  reason 
you  don't  keep  it?  don't  you  take  such  money?'  'Yes,  Aunt  Peggy,  just 
as  much  of  it  as  I  can  get.  I  wish  I  could  have  thousands  of  it  every 
day.'  '  Well,  why  don't  you  take  it  den  ?'  '  Well,'  said  he,  bustin'  out 
into  de  biggest  laugh  you  ever  heerd,  'I  don't  take  it,  Aunt  Peggy,  just 
because  it  ain't  a  dollar,  it  wants  five  cents  of  it ;  it's  only  a  five  franc 
piece.'  Now,  Miss  Gracey,  it's  jes  so  wid  Presbyterians;  dey  is  mity  good 
silver,  an'  we  Baptists  is  willin'  to  take  dem  for  jes  what  dey  is  worth; 
but  dey  ain't  a  dollar,  I  tell  you !  dey  wants  de  five  cents." 


SALLY    ROCHESTER    FORD.  303 

Grace  and  Fannie  were  much  impressed  with  the  old  servant's  apt 
illustration.  For  a  moment  neither  of  them  made  any  reply.  At  length, 
as  if  a  new  thought  had  struck  her,  Fannie  said : 

"But  Aunt  Peggy,  if  Mr.  Ray  had  chosen,  he  could  have  taken  your 
five  franc  piece,  couldn't  he  ?" 

The  old  woman  saw  the  point  in  her  question,  and  answered 
quickly. 

'•  No,  no,  Miss  Fannie,  it  is  not  lef  to  Massa  Ray  to  do  as  he  pleases 
in  dis  matter.  Mr.  Matthews  'spects  him  to  mind  what  he  says ;  an'  it 
is  jes  so  wid  us;  we  mus'  follow  de  Master's  command;  we  doesn't  dar' 
to  change  it.  If  he  had  lef  us  to  do  as  we  pleased,  we  might  commune 
wid  all  Christian  people ;  but  you  know  he  told  all  dat  partakes  of  de 
emblems  of  his  broken  body  and  spilt  blood  first  to  be  baptized,  an'  dis  is  de 
reason  why  we  Baptists  can  never  break  bread  wid  dose  dat  has  only  been 
sprinkled.     Don't  you  see  dis.  Miss  Graeey  ?" 


THE  BAPTISM. 

It  was  a  beautiful  spot,  the  one  selected  for  the  baptism.  The  creek, 
having  passed  over  a  dam  a  few  yards  above,  spread  out,  at  this  point,  in  a 
smooth,  tranquil  sheet,  whose  crystal  waters,  like  a  mirror,  sent  back  from 
its  unruffled  surface  the  glorious  light  of  heaven.  On  the  further  side  from 
the  village,  there  stretched  back,  from  the  banks  of  the  stream,  a  little 
meadow,  now  clad  in  its  garment  of  russet  and  green,  while  all  along  the 
edge  of  the  water  there  stood  gigantic  old  sycamores,  whose  leafiess  branches 
still  bent  caressingly  over  the  child  of  their  bosom,  though  they  could  no 
longer  give  her  protection  from  the  noon-day  sun.  Their  infancy  had  looked 
on  a  race  long  since  gone  !  their  age  was  now  to  witness,  for  the  first  time, 
the  celebration  (if  a  simple  rite,  which  had  its  origin  in  the  far-off  wilder- 
ness of  Judea,  and  which  bad  beeen  preserved  by  the  faithful  followers  of 
their  Master,  through  the  fall  of  nations  and  the  decay  of  empires,  through 
trials,  and  persecution,  and  blood.  Surely  not  one  jot  or  tittle  shall  [ >;i-~~ 
away  till  all  be  fulfilled. 

i  in  the  side  next  the  village,  there  was  a  gradual  descent  to  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  edge  of  the  water,  where  tin'  bank  extended  itself  into  a  smooth, 
level  plat,  from  the  dam  above  to  the  little  foot-bridge  a  few  hundred  yards 
below.     Nature  seemed  to  have  designed  that  spot  for  the  administration  of 


304  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

the  most  beautiful  and  solemn  ordinance  of  the  word  of  God,  so  admirably 
was  it  adapted  to  the  purpose. 

The  day,  too,  was  a  lovely  one.  Earth,  air,  and  sky,  all  conspired  to 
throw  an  additional  charm  around  the  impending  rite.  The  sun  looked 
down  from  the  blue  heavens  above  upon  the  quiet  scene  below,  with  a  smile 
of  glorious  effulgence ;  the  air  wearing  that  peculiar  softness  of  November, 
tempered,  while  it  diffused  his  brightness  and  his  glory.  Earth  seemed 
wrapped  in  holy  repose,  such  as  we  imagine  enshrouded  Eden  during  the 
sabbath  of  sinless  rest,  ere  the  taste  of  the  forbidden  fruit  "brought  death 
and  all  our  woe." 

"  And  will  you  not  go  to  see  me  baptized,  father?"  asked  Fannie,  tremu- 
lously, of  the  old  man,  as  he  sat  in  the  corner,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  that 
dark,  dreadful  frown  crowning  his  brow.  She  was  all  ready  to  step  into  the 
carriage. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  as  if  surprised  at  her  question. 

"  Go  to  see  you  baptized,  Fannie !  No,  that  I  won't.  I  can  see  no 
daughter  of  mine  dipped!" 

She  leaned  over  him  and  kissed  his  darkened  brow,  while  the  silent  tears 
coursed  each  other  down  her  sorrowful  cheeks. 

"For  thee,  my  Saviour,  for  thee!"  she  exclaimed  to  herself,  as,  with 
breaking  heart,  she  turned  away.  Her  mother  gently  took  her  hand,  and  led 
her  to  the  carriage,  which  stood  ready  at  the  door.  Mr.  Lewis  was  awaiting 
them.  He  gazed  on  his  cousin  with  an  expression  of  the  deepest  sympathy, 
and  whispering  in  her  ear,  "Fear  not,  Fannie,  he  will  be  with  you,"  handed 
her  into  the  carriage,  and  seating  himself  by  her  side,  they  drove  to  the 
water. 

The  minister,  with  Mr.  Holmes  and  Grace,  Annie  and  her  brother, 
together  with  most  of  the  little  band,  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  declivity, 
awaiting  them.  Mr.  Holmes'  countenance  beamed  with  joy  and  love.  His 
heart  was  filled  with  that  confidence  and  hope  which  lift  the  soul  above  the 
present  life,  and  give  to  it  visions  of  the  unseen  glory.  His  faith  was  "  the 
substance  of  things  hoped  for,"  the  sure  evidence  of  things  not  seen. 

As  the  little  company  wended  their  way  down  the  slope,  they  sung  that 
stirring  song  • 

"  In  all  my  Lord's  appointed  ways 
My  journey  I'll  pursue  ; 
Hinder  me  not,  ye  much-loved  saints, 
For  I  must  go  with  you. 


SALLY  ROCHESTER  FORD.  305 

"  Through  duty,  and  through  trials,  too, 
I'll  go  at  his  command; 
Hinder  me  not,  for  I  am  bound, 
For  my  Immanuel's  land. 

"  And  when  my  Saviour  calls  me  home, 
Still  this  my  cry  shall  be  : 
'  Hinder  me  not,  come,  welcome  death, 
I'll  gladly  go  with  thee.'  " 

The  effect  upon  the  audience  was  magical.  It  was  hushed  to  the  pro- 
foundest  silence.  Those  who  had  come  from  motives  of  curiosity  were 
melted  to  tears ;  those  who  had  come  to  laugh  and  jeer,  were  seized,  as  if 
under  conviction  for  sin  ;  a  feeling  of  awe  pervaded  the  whole  assembly. 
The  Spirit  of  God  was  in  their  midst,  and  they  could  not,  they  wished  not 
to  deride  and  mock.  Old  and  young ;  men  in  the  noontide  of  strength  and 
vigor,  indifferent  and  unmoved  about  their  soul's  salvation  ;  young  men  in 
life's  spring-time,  regardless  of  any  duty  to  God  ;  matrons  and  maidens,  all 
were  overcome  by  the  impressiveness  of  the  solemn  scene  ;  and  tears  found 
their  way  to  eyes  that  seldom  wept. 

Still  the  little  band  moved  on  with  slow  and  solemn  step  ;  still  their  notes 
of  praise  rung  out  on  the  hushed  air. 

Fannie  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  Mr.  Lewis.  Her  heart  was  sad,  bowed 
even  nigh  to  breaking,  for  on  it  rested  the  weight  of  her  father's  sore  dis- 
pleasure. Mr.  Lewis,  whose  soul  was  fixed  upon  the  promises  of  Jehovah, 
who  felt  all  the  comfort,  all  the  bliss  of  faith  in  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and 
all  the  happiness  of  entire  obedience  to  his  commands — whose  every  feature 
bespoke  the  peace  and  joy  of  "believing,"  endeavored  to  reassure  her  as 
they  passed  on  ;  but  "  a  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear?" 

Her  soul  was  racked  beneath  the  conflict  of  contending  emotions;  she 
felt  that  she  was  giving  up  all  earthly  happiness.  She  was  acting  in  direct 
opposition  to  her  father's  expressed  will ;  and  that  father,  bowed  down  by 
the  grief  of  her  disobedience,  had  positively  refused  to  see  her  baptized. 
She  was  severing  herself  from  all  her  early  associations.  Those  she  had 
known  from  her  childhood  days,  whose  hearts  had  treasured  her  with  a  sis- 
ter's love,  would  now  turn  from  her  cold  and  indifferent;  and  there  was  one 
fir  dearer  to  her  than  all  other  friends  beside  ;  one  to  whom  she  had  given 
her  highest,  holiest,  earthly  love,  and  she  was  now  about  to  meet  the  doom 

20 


306  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

of  separation  from  him— from  all  she  loved.  She  wondered  if  he  would  be 
there,  or  would  he  stay  away  and  thus  manifest  his  disapprobation  of  her 
course.  She  prayed,  oh  so  fervently,  that  God  would  direct  his  steps  thither, 
and  there  convince  him,  by  his  own  mighty  power,  of  the  obligation  that 
yet  rested  upon  him  as  a  follower  of  the  blessed  Redeemer.  "  Grant  me 
this,  0  my  Father !  I  ask  no  more ;  lead  him  in  the  paths  of  all  righteous- 
ness for  thy  name's  sake." 

She  leaned  heavily  on  the  arm  of  her  cousin  for  support.  She  was  almost 
ready  to  sink  beneath  the  burden  of  her  sorrows.  Her  mother  followed 
behind  her ;  her  deep  sobbings  fell  upon  her  ear  during  the  intervals  between 
the  words  of  the  song,  and  pierced  her  bosom  to  its  deepest  depths. 

Mrs.  Holmes  clung  to  her  daughter  with  that  love  which  only  a  mother's 
heart  can  feel  under  such  trying  circumstances.  She  did  not  disapprove  the 
act  her  daughter  was  about  to  perform  ;  she  thought  only  of  the  painful, 
fearful  consequences  to  her  affectionate  nature.  How  dark,  oh  how  very 
dark  did  the  future  appear  as  it  arrayed  itself  before  her !  She  fully  com- 
prehended her  daughter's  situation  ;  she  knew  what  must  be  the  effects  of 
blighted  hope  on  a  heart  so  young,  so  pure,  so  trusting ;  and  she  knew,  too, 
that  to  all  this  sorrow  would  be  added  that  of  her  father's  unmitigated  dis- 
approbation. If  that  father  had  but  come  to  see  his  daughter  baptized,  it 
would  have  been  some  consolation  ;  but  he  would  not,  The  mother's  heart, 
as  well  as  the  daughter's,  was  well-nigh  breaking.  Her  faith  was  dimmed  to 
darkness ;  she  saw  the  picture  in  its  deepest  shadow,  and  could  not  realize 
that  light  could  ever  gild  its  blackness. 

As  they  approached  the  stream,  the  crowd  parted  on  either  side,  and 
they  passed  through  to  the  water's  edge.  As  the  last  words  of  the  song 
died  away,  there  was  a  stillness  as  of  the  grave.  Lifting  his  trembling 
hands  on  high,  the  aged  man  offered  up  a  short,  beseeching  prayer  to  God 
for  his  blessing  on  what  was  now  to  be  done  in  his  name,  that  grace  might 
be  given  to  those  who  were  there  to  testify  to  the  world  their  love  to  Christ 
and  their  willingness  to  follow  him  in  all  of  his  commands  ;  to  grant  to  them 
that  "  perfect  love  which  casteth  out  all  fear." 

And  with  his  went  up  from  the  stricken  heart  at  his  side,  earnest  suppli- 
cation, "  Be  with  me,  O  my  God,  be  with  me  !  Give  me  strength  to  do  thy 
will !  0  take  not  thy  presence  from  me  in  this  my  hour  of  need !  I  do  it 
all  for  thee — in  obedience  to  thy  command  !  I  leave  father  and  mother,  kin- 
dred and  friends,  all— all  to  follow  thee  !  O  leave  me  not,  nor  forsake  me ! 
still  my  strength  and  helper  be !     Support  me !  O  support  me!" 


SALLY  ROCHESTER  FORD.  307 

And  there  came  a  voice  as  if  from  heaven,  saying  :  "  Fear  not ;  lo  !  I  am 
with  you,  follow  me.  I  will  be  thy  guide  and  support ;  I  bled  that  thou 
mightst  live ;  I  poured  out  my  soul  in  death  for  thy  redemption.  Canst  thou 
not  trust  me?  Look  up,  look  up,  and  see  me  on  the  cross  bleeding,  dying, 
that  thou  mightst  be  saved.  Have  I  not  said,  every  one  that  hath  forsaken 
houses,  or  brethren,  or  sisters,  or  father,  or  mother,  or  wife,  or  children,  or 
lands,  for  my  name's  sake,  shall  receive  a  hundredfold,  and  shall  inherit  ever- 
lasting life.  I  have  kept  thee  thus  far,  and  can  I  not  preserve  thee  to  the 
end?" 

She  could  trust ;  she  did  trust !  And  as  the  prayer  closed,  she  threw  aside 
her  veil,  and  those  around  her  saw  her  face  beaming,  as  it  had  been  the  face 
of  an  angel.  All  fear,  all  doubt  was  gone.  "  She  knew  in  whom  she  had 
trusted." 

Giving  her  bonnet  to  Annie  Gray,  who  stood  by  her  side,  she  took  the 
arm  of  her  brother,  and  followed  the  minister  and  Mr.  Lewis  into  the  water. 
As  she  stood,  her  hair  thrown  back  from  her  calm  brow,  and  her  hands 
folded  on  her  peaceful  bosom,  while  a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  and  truth 
lighted  up  her  placid  face,  she  presented  a  picture  of  unearthly  loveliness. 
And  never,  in  coming  time,  did  that  vision  pass  from  the  remembrance  of 
those  that  saw  her.  There  was  one  beholden  who  perceived  it  in  all  its 
intensity  and  power;  it  had  burned  itself  in  upon  his  heart  in  ever-enduring 
characters,  and  often  in  after  years  did  he  revert  to  it  with  feelings  akin  to 
adoration. 

On  a  slight  eminence,  and  a  little  way  above  the  stream,  and  apart  from 
the  crowd,  there  stood  a  man,  his  form  enveloped  in  a  cloak,  and  his  hat 
shading  his  face.  No  one  observed,  him,  for  all  eyes  were  directed  to  the 
group  in  the  water.  But  there  he  stood  alone,  with  folded  arms  and  down- 
cast look,  while  the  big  tears  followed  each  other  down  his  sorrowful 
cheeks. 

"  There  are  three  that  bear  record  in  heaven,  the  Father,  the  Word,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost,  and  these  three  are  one.  And  there  are  three  that  bear 
witness  on  earth,  the  Spirit,  and  the  water,  and  the  blood,  and  these  three 
agree  in  one. 

"  And  in  obedience  to  the  command  of  my  Lord  and  Saviour,  and  after 
his  example,  I  baptize  thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  the  Son,  and  the 
Holy  <;host.     Amen." 

A  moment,  and  Mr.  Lewis  arose  from  the  liquid  grave,  to  walk  in 
newness  of  life. 


308  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Fannie  stood  with  closed  eyes,  while  her  brother  submitted  to  the  ordi- 
nance which  publicly  testified  his  death  to  sin,  and  his  resurrection  to  a  life 
of  faith  and  holiness.  Her  heart  was  communing  with  her  Saviour,  she  was 
tasting  of  that  bliss  which  the  soul  feels,  when  God  from  off  the  mercy-seat 
reveals  himself  to  man. 

Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  was  heard.  When  it  came  to  her  turn  to 
be  "  buried  with  Christ  in  baptism,"  she  cast  an  earnest  searching  glance 
upon  the  crowd;  then  closing  her  eyes,  she  was  "planted  in  the  likeness  of 
the  Saviour's  death,"  that  she  might  "be  also  in  the  likeness  of  his  resur- 
rection." 

As  she  arose,  she  said,  so  as  to  be  heard  by  all  near,  "  I  thank  thee,  O  my 
God,  that  thou  hast  given  me  strength  to  do  thy  will ;  praise  the  Lord,  O  my 
soul,  and  all  that  is  within  me  bless  his  holy  name  !" 

As  she  reached  the  bank  she  was  caught  in  the  arms  of  her  mother,  who, 
with  tears  of  joy,  pressed  her  to  her  heart.  "  Bless  de  Lord !  bless  de  Lord !" 
was  heard  above  the  voice  of  the  surrounding  weeping,  and  old  Aunt  Peggy 
was  seen  making  her  way  to  where  the  group  stood,  exclaiming  as  she  went, 
"Bless  de  Lord!  bless  de  Lord!"  She  shook  the  hand  of  each,  while  her 
happy  old  face  was  bathed  in  tears,  and  her  soul  too  full  of  joy  for  aught  save 
praise  to  God  for  his  great  mercy.  And  as  she  passed  through  the  crowd, 
shaking  the  hand  of  all  she  met,  her  overflowing  heart  gushed  forth  in  thanks- 
giving and  love. 


SUSAN  ARCHER  TALLET. 

Had  Miss  Talley  been  born  under  the  shadow  of  the  Boston 
State  House,  her  "  Ennerslie,"  "  Con  Elgin,"  "  Lady  of  Lodee," 
and  poems  of  a  similar  stamp,  would  have  made  her  a  conspi- 
cuous spoke  in  the  wheel  within  wheel — the  orbit  of  the  literary 
elect — around  that  "  hub  of  the  universe."  Her  Muse  has  many 
points  in  sympathy  with  that  of  Longfellow,  and  some  of  her 
poems  are,  in  the  best  sense,  Tennysonian ;  yet  she  is  in  no 
respect  an  imitator.  She  does  not  belong  to  the  school  of 
aspirants  who  affect  the  irregularities  and  ambiguities  of 
Tennyson ;  but  she  has  quaffed  with  him  from  the  same  dim 
shadowy  outlets  of  Hippocrene,  and  with  qualities  of  mind  some- 
what akin,  though  undeveloped  and  unequal,  "  bodies  forth  " 
her  ideals  in  cadences  of  her  own. 

Miss  Talley  is  descended,  on  the  paternal  side,  from  a 
Huguenot  refugee,  who  settled  on  an  estate  in  Hanover  County, 
Virginia,  about  the  same  time  with  the  Fontaine  family,  whose 
memoirs  we  have  in  "  A  Tale  of  the  Huguenots."  In  this  old 
homestead,  still  in  the  possession  of  the  family,  our  poet  was 
born,  and  here  she  passed  the  first  eight  years  of  her  childhood. 

I  br  father,  a  gentleman  of  fine  tone  and  talents,  gave  early 
promise  of  eminence  in  his  profession  of  the  law  ;  unfortunately, 
however,  a  constitutional  diffidence  which  in  a  measure  unfitted 
him  fur  public  speaking,  together  with  a  sensitiveness  entirely 
opposed  to  the  harsh  experiences  of  his  office,  induced  him  to 
resign  the  practice  of  his  profession.     To  those  who  art'  fund  of 

809 


310  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

tracing  the  possession  of  genius  to  hereditary  induction,  it  may 
he  interesting  to  ohserve  how,  in  this  instance,  the  mental 
endowments  and  keen  sensibilities  of  the  father,  are  repeated  in 
the  daughter,  and,  as  it  were,  heightened  into  the  poetical 
temperament. 

Among  the  traits  earliest  developed  in  Miss  Talley,  were 
extreme  fearlessness  and  love  of  liberty.  Before  she  was  five 
years  of  age,  she  delighted  in  wandering  about  the  estate,  alone 
or  accompanied  by  her  huge  Newfoundland  dog,  Trim,  explor- 
ing lonely  woods,  pathless  meadows,  and  gloomy  hollows,  where 
other  children  could  not  be  induced  to  venture.  She  had  Trim's 
own  fondness  for  the  water,  and  when  sought,  after  long  hours 
of  absence,  was  generally  found  wading  in  a  stream  in  a  wild 
frolic  with  the  dog,  or  sitting  quietly  on  the  bank,  watching  the 
flow  of  the  waves. 

It  is  said  that  she  was  never  known  to  betray  a  sign  of  fear  ; 
and  that  at  this  age,  in  her  visits  to  the  neighbors,  she  would 
unhesitatingly  face  and  subdue  by  her  caresses  the  fiercest  dogs, 
which  even  grown  persons  dared  not  approach.  A  singular 
power  of  will  and  magnetism,  like  that  ascribed  to  the  author 
of  "  "Wuthering  Heights,''  seems  to  have  possessed  her.  She  rode 
with  a  graceful,  fearless  abandon,  and  loved  nothing  better  than 
to  float  away  by  herself  in  a  frail  boat.  She  was  the  frequent 
companion  of  her  father  and  grandfather  in  their  walks,  rides, 
and  hunting  and  fishing  excursions ;  yet,  with  all  these 
influences,  she  was  ever  a  gentle  child,  and  remarkable  for 
extreme  sensibility  and  refinement.  She  delighted  in  all  sights 
and  sounds  of  beauty  ;  and  would  sit  for  hours  watching  the 
sky  in  storm  and  sunshine,  or  listening  to  the  wind  among  the 
trees — the  plashing  of  a  waterfall,  or  the  cry  of  a  whip-poor- 
will.  This  life  familiarized  her  with  all  the  voices  of  nature. 
A  sound  once  heard  she  never  forgot,  but  could,  years  after, 
imitate    with    surprising    exactnesss.       "  I    thus,''    she    says, 


SUSAN  ARCHER  TALLEY.  311 

"  retain  a  rich  store  of  remembrances,  so  vivid,  that  they 
seem  ever  in  the  present." 

When  she  was  eight  years  of  age,  her  father  removed  to 
Richmond,  and  she  then  entered  school.  The  change  from 
unrestrained  country  life  to  the  confinement  of  the  city,  and  the 
irksome  discipline  of  school,  seemed  a  real  affliction  to  the 
child.  Then,  too,  her  fine  sensibilities  were,  for  the  first  time, 
brought  into  contact  with  natures  of  a  coarser  grain,  and  the 
rudeness,  selfishness,  and  tyranny  which  she  encountered,  jarred 
upon  her  painfully.  To  her  teachers,  with  whom  she  was  ever 
a  favorite,  she  became  warmly  attached,  but  she  shrank  from 
association  with  her  schoolmates,  and  though  of  a  lively  dispo- 
sition, could  never  be  induced  to  join  in  their  sports. 

When  in  her  eleventh  year,  she  was  released  from  this 
school  thralldom,  by  an  unexpected  dispensation.  It  had  been 
remarked  that  for  some  days  she  had  appeared  singularly 
absent  and  inattentive  when  spoken  to  ;  being  at  length 
reproved,  she  burst  into  tears,  exclaiming,  "  I  can't  hear  you." 
It  was  then  discovered  that  her  hearing  was  greatly  impaired. 
She  was  placed  under  the  care  of  the  most  eminent  physicians, 
both  at  the  North  and  the  South  ;  but  their  varied  efforts 
resulted,  as  is  too  often  the  case,  only  in  an  aggravation  of  the 
evil.  She  lost  the  power  to  distinguish  conversation,  though 
carried  on  in  a  loud  key ;  a  power  which  to  this  day  she  has  not 
wholly  recovered.  She  seems  to  have  reconciled  herself  at  once 
to  this  deprivation,  and  though  given  more  than  ever  to  thought- 
ful moods,  and  studious  habits,  was  ever  patient  and  cheerful. 
In  conversing  with  her,  the  common  finger-alphabet  was  resorted 
to,  when  necessary,  but  her  extraordinary  rpiickness  of  appre- 
hension generally  rendered  such  aids  needless.  She  would  join 
in  conversation  with  so  much  readiness  and  ease  that  strangers 
seldom  suspected  her  infirmity. 

Her  parents  were  at  first  greatly  at  loss  as  to  the  manner  of 


312  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

conducting  her  education.  Fortunately,  she  was  advanced  far 
beyond  most  children  of  her  age,  and  now,  released  from  the 
discipline  of  school,  her  natural  love  of  study  deepened  into  a 
passion.  It  was  soon  found  sufficient  to  throw  suitable  books 
in  her  way,  and  thus,  unassisted,  she  completed  a  thorough 
scholastic  course.  She  also  acquired  an  extensive  acquaintance 
with  the  literature  of  the  day,  and  her  correct  taste,  and  critical 
discrimination,  elicited  the  warmest  encomiums  from  that  prince 
of  critics,  Edgar  A.  Poe. 

At  the  age  of  twelve,  Miss  Talley  developed  an  unsuspected 
faculty.  A  friend  having  presented  her  with  a  bouquet,  she 
supplied  herself  with  paper,  pencils,  and  water-colors,  shut  her- 
self in  her  own  room,  and,  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours,  produced 
an  almost  perfect  copy  of  the  flowers.  Masters  were  at  once 
procured,  who  assured  her  that  her  talent  was  of  a  high  order. 
Among  these,  the  artist  Robert  Sully  was  very  solicitous  that 
she  should  devote  herself  to  the  cultivation  of  painting,  and  pre- 
dicted for  her  a  brilliant  success.  Had  her  father,  whose  inter. 
est  in,  and  devotion  to,  her  culture  never  flagged,  but  lived  to 
prosecute  his  generous  designs,  she  might  have  accomplished 
much  in  this  line  of  art ;  but  with  his  death,  which  occurred  a 
few  years  after,  her  enthusiasm  departed,  the  palette  was  laid 
aside  and  never  after  resumed,  though  her  crayon  drawings  and 
miniatures  are  not  surpassed,  for  beauty  and  finish,  by  those  of 
any  artist  in  the  country. 

It  was  not  until  Miss  Talley  had  entered  her  thirteenth  year 
that  her  poetic  faculty  became  apparent  to  her  family,  she  hav- 
ing, through  excessive  modesty,  carefully  concealed  all  proofs 
of  its  development.  Some  specimens  of  her  verse  then  falling 
under  the  eye  of  her  father,  he  at  once  recognized  in  them  the 
flow  of  true  genius,  and  very  wisely,  with  a  few  encouraging 
words,  left  her  to  the  guidance  of  her  own  inspiration.  In  her 
sixteenth  year,  some  of  her  poems  appeared  in  the   "  Southern 


SUSAN    ARCHER    TALLEY.  313 

Literary  Messenger,"  to  which  she  lias  ever  since  been  an  occa- 
sional contributor. 

In  September,  1859,  a  collection  of  her  poems  was  issued  by 
Kudd  &  Carleton,  of  New  York.  This  volume  has  secured  for 
her  a  distinction  of  which  she  may  well  be  proud.  For 
rhythmic  melody,  for  sustained  imagination,  for  depth  of  feel- 
ing, and  purity  and  elevation  of  sentiment,  these  poems  are 
equalled  by  few,  and  surpassed  by  none  of  the  productions  of 
our  poets.  They  are  rich,  also,  in  those  qualities  of  mind  and 
heart,  which,  apart  from  any  literary  prestige,  win  for  Miss 
Talley  the  esteem  and  affection  of  all  who  are  admitted  within 
the  choice  circle  of  her  friendship. 

With  this  evidence  of  a  genius  which  has,  probably,  not  yet 
reached  its  maturity,  we  may  confidently  predict  for  this  writer 
a  distinguished  rank  in  the  world  of  letters. 


ENNERSLIE. 

PART    FIRST. 

A  hoary  tower,  grim  and  high, 
All  beneath  a  summer  sky, 
Where  the  river  glideth  by, 

Sullenly — sullenly  ; 
Across  the  wave  in  sluggish  gloom, 
Heavy  and  black,  the  shadows  loom- 
But  the  water-lilies  brightly  bloom 

Round  about  grim  Ennerslie. 

All  upon  the  bank  below, 
Alders  green  and  willows  grow, 
That  ever  sway  them  to  and  fro, 
Mournfully — mournfully ; 


314  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH, 

Never  a  boat  doth  pass  that  way, 
Never  is  heard  a  carol  gay, 
Nor  doth  a  weary  pilgrim  stray 
Down  by  haunted  Eunerslie. 


Yet  in  that  tower  is  a  room 
From  whose  fretted  oaken  dome 
"Weird  faces  peer  athwart  the  gloom, 

Mockingly — mockingly ; 
And  there,  beside  the  taper's  gleam, 
That  maketh  darkness  darker  seem, 
As  one  that  waketh  in  a  dream, 

Sits  the  lord  of  Ennerslie. 

Sitteth  in  his  carved  chair — 
From  his  forehead,  pale  and  fair, 
Falleth  down  the  raven  hair, 

Heavily — heavily ; 
There  is  no  color  in  his  cheek, 
His  lip  is  pale— he  doth  not  speak— 
And  rarely  doth  his  footstep  break 

The  stillness  of  grim  Ennerslie. 

From  the  casement,  mantled  o'er 
With  ivy  boughs  and  lichens  hoar, 
The  shadows  creep  along  the  floor, 

Stealthily — stealthily ; 
They  glide  along,  a  spectral  train, 
And  rest  upon  the  blackened  stain, 
Where  of  old  a  corpse  was  Iain- 
Murdered  at  grim  Ennerslie. 

In  a  niche  within  the  wall, 
Where  the  shadows  deepest  fall, 
Like  a  coffin  and  a  pall, 
Gloomily — gloomily— 


SUSAN  ARCHER  TALLEY.  315 

Sits  a  ghostly  owl,  and  grey, 
That  there  hath  sat  for  many  a  day, 
And  motionless,  doth  gaze  alway 
Upon  the  lord  of  Ennerslie. 

Gazeth  with  its  spectral  eyes 
Ever  iu  a  weird  surprise, 
Like  some  demon  in  disguise, 

Steadily — steadily ; 
And  close  heside  that  haunted  nook 
Bendeth  o'er  an  open  book, 
With  a  wan  and  weary  look, 

The  pale  young  lord  of  Ennerslie. 

With  a  measured  step,  and  slow, 
At  times  he  paeeth  to  and  fro, 
Muttering  in  whispers  low, 

Fitfully— fitfully, 
Or  resting  in  his  Gothic  chair, 
Gazeth  on  the  vacant  air  : 
Sure,  some  phantom  sees  he  there, 

The  haunted  lord  of  Ennerslie. 

There  is  a  picture  ou  the  wall, 
A  statue  on  a  pedestal — 
Standing  where  the  sunbeams  fall 

Goldenly — goldenly ; 
And  alike,  in  form  and  face, 
The  self-same  beauty  beareth  trace : 
Imaged  with  a  wondrous  grace 

This  fairy  form  at  Ennerslie. 

Once,  'tis  said,  upon  a  time, 
In  the  flush  of  youthful  prime, 
Wandering  in  a  southern  clime 
Restlessly — restlessly — 


316  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

There  passed  hirn  by  a  lady  fair, 
With  violet  eyes  and  golden  hair; 
It  is  her  form  that  gleameth  there — 
That  fairy  form  at  Ennerslie. 

He  saw  her  'mid  a  festal  throng, 
He  heard  her  sing  a  plaintive  song, — 
He  sings  it  yet  those  shades  among, 

Mournfully — mournfully ; 
He  saw  her  but  a  little  space, 
Yet  haunted  by  that  angel-grace 
He  wrought  the  beauteous  form  and  face, 

When  back  returned  to  Ennerslie. 

When  the  sun  is  in  the  west, 
And  the  water-lilies  rest, 
Rocking  on  the  river's  breast 

Sleepily — sleepily ; 
When  the  woodlands,  far  remote, 
Startle  to  the  night-bird's  note, 
Down  the  river  glides  a  boat 

From  the  shades  of  Ennerslie. 

Glideth  down  by  Ellesmaire, 
Where  doth  dwell  a  lady  fair 
With  violet  eyes  and  golden  hair, 

Lonesomely — lonesomely ; 
At  the  window's  height  alway, 
She  waves  a  scarf  of  colors  gay, 
And  in  the  distance,  grim  and  grey, 

She  seeth  haunted  Ennerslie. 

Sitting  in  her  lonely  room. 
Once,  amid  the  twilight  gloom, 
Bending  o'er  her  fairy  loom 
Wearily — wearily, 


SUSAN    ARCHER    TALLEY.  317 

She  heareth  music,  sweet  and  low  ; 
It  is  a  song  she  well  doth  know, 
She  used  to  sing  it  long  ago — 
It  cometh  up  from  Ennerslie. 

Back  she  threw  the  casement  wide ; 
She  saw  the  river  onward  glide, 
The  lilies  nodding  on  the  tide, 

Sleepily — sleepily ; 
She  saw  a  boat  with  snowy  sail, 
Bearing  onward  with  the  gale — 
She  saw  the  silken  streamer  pale — 

She  saw  the  lord  of  Ennerslie. 

Carelessly  he  passed  along 

The  drooping  willow  shades  among, 

Singing  still  that  plaintive  song 

Mournfully — mournfully ; 
Upon  her  hand  she  leant  her  head, 
She  mused  until  the  day  was  dead ; 
"  Oh,  he  was  pale  and  sad,"  she  said, 

"  And  it  is  lone  at  Ennerslie." 

PART   SECOND. 

Fading  are  the  summer  leaves, 

The  fields  are  rich  with  golden  sheaves ; 

Her  silken  scarf  the  lady  weaves 

"Wearily — wearily ; 
Her  cheek  hath  lost  its  summer  bloom, 
Her  lovely  eyes  are  full  of  gloom ; 
She  weaveth  at  her  fairy  loom, 

And  looketh  down  to  Ennerslie. 

She  doth  not  smile,  she  doth  not  sigh  ; 
Above  her  is  the  cold  grey  sky, 
Below,  the  river  moaneth  by 
Drearily — drearily  ; 


318  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

She  sees  the  withered  leaflets  ride 
Like  fairy  harks  adown  the  tide ; 
She  saith,  "Right  joyously  they  glide, 
For  they  go  down  to  Ennerslie !" 

And  oft,  when  in  the  chamber  wall 
The  sunset  hues  in  splendor  fall. 
And  mystic  woodland  echoes  call 

Bodingly — bodingly ; 
She  draws  aside  the  curtain's  flow, 
And  in  the  quiet  stream  below 
She  watcheth,  gliding  onward  slow, 

The  snowy  sail  from  Ennerslie. 

Beside  her,  on  the  hearth  of  stone, 
There  sits  a  bent  and  withered  crone, 
Who  doth  forever  rock  and  moan 

Drowsily — drowsily ; 
She  crooneth  songs  of  mystic  rhyme, 
And  legends  of  the  olden  time  ; 
She  telleth  tales  of  death  and  crime. 

She  tells  of  haunted  Ennerslie. 

She  telleth  how,  as  she  hath  heard, 
There  dwelleth  there  a  spirit  weird 
In  seeming  of  a  ghostly  bird, 

Ceaselessly — ceaselessly ; 
Because  one  hundred  years  agone 
A  bloody  murder  there  was  done, 
A  fearful  curse  doth  rest  upon 

The  haughty  race  of  Ennerslie. 

"  But  tell  me,  nurse,"  the  lady  said, 
"  What  is  this  curse  so  dark  and  dread?" 
The  nurse  she  shook  her  aged  head 
Solemnly — solemnly  ; 


SUSAN  ARCHER  TALLEY.  319 

"  He  crazed,  by  whom  the  deed  was  done, 
And  it  doth  run  from  sire  to  son  ; 
Some  time  the  curse  shall  light  upon 

This  strange  young  lord  of  Ennerslie  ; 

"  But  should  some  youthful  maiden  dare 
For  true  love's  sake  to  enter  there, 
The  curse  herself  shall  break  and  bear, 

Fearfully — fearfully." 
And  then  she  laughed,  the  beldame  old  ; 
"  Saint  Mary  !  she  were  wondrous  bold 
Who  should  for  either  love  or  gold 

Set  free  the  curse  from  Ennerslie!" 

She  telleth  how  that  dotard  crone, 

He  loved  a  lady  years  agone, 

The  fairest  that  the  earth  hath  known, 

Secretly — secretly ; 
But  dared  not  woo  her  for  his  bride, 
Because  the  doom  will  sure  betide 
The  first  that  in  her  beauty's  pride 

Shall  go  to  haunted  Ennerslie. 

She  listened,  but  she  nothing  said ; 

Like  a  lily  drooped  her  head ; 

Her  white  hand  wound  the  silken  thread 

Listlessly— listlessly ; 
She  rove  the  scarf  from  out  the  loom, 
She  paced  the  floor,  she  crossed  the  room, 
And  gleaming  through  the  twilight  gloom 
She  saw  the  light  at  Ennerslie. 

The  nurse,  she  slumbered  in  her  chair; 
Then  up  arose  that  lady  fair 
And  crept  adown  the  winding  stair 
Stealthily — stealthily  ; 


320  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

A  boat  was  by  the  river  side, 
The  silken  scarf  as  sail  she  tied, 
And  lovely  in  her  beauty's  pride 

"Went  gliding  down  to  Ennerslie. 

Back  upon  the  sighing  gale 

Her  tresses  floated,  like  a  veil ; 

Her  brow  was  cold,  her  cheek  was  pale, 

Fearfully — fearfully  ; 
Was  that  a  whisper  in  her  ear  ? 
Was  that  a  shadow  hovering  near? 
Her  very  life-blood  chilled  with  fear 

As  down  she  went  to  Ennerslie. 

As  upward  her  blue  eyes  she  cast, 
A  shadowy  form  there  flitted  past 
And  settled  on  the  quivering  mast 

Silently — silently. 
The  lady  gazed,  yet  spake  no  word : 
She  knew  it  was  the  demon  bird, 
The  dark  avenging  spirit  weird 

That  dwelt  at  haunted  Ennerslie. 

Fainter  from  the  tower's  height 
Seems  to  her  the  beacon-light, 
Gleaming  on  her  misty  sight 

Fitfully— fitfully  ; 
The  river's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
A  chilly  dew  is  on  her  brow  ; 
She  saith,  "  The  curse  is  on  me  now 

But  'tis  no  more  on  Ennerslie  j" 

"And  he  will  never  know,"  she  sighed. 
"  When  hither  comes  his  Southern  bride, 
That  one  for  love  of  him  hath  died 
Secretly— secretly ; 


SUSAN    ARCHER    TALLEY.  o'21 

I  knew  that  here  I  could  not  stay — 
My  heart  was  breaking  day  by  day ; 
And  dying  thus  I  take  away 

The  evil  spell  from  Ennerslie.'' 

Amid  that  tower's  solitude 
He  sitteth  in  a  musing  mood, 
And  gazeth  down  upon  the  flood 

Mournfully — mournfully  ; 
When  lo  !  he  sees  a  tiny  bark 
Gliding  amid  the  shadows  dark, 
And  there  a  lady  still  and  stark — 

A  wondrous  sight  at  Ennerslie ! 

He  hurried  to  the  bank  below, 
Upon  the  strand  he  drew  the  prow — 
He  drew  it  in  the  moonlight's  glow 

Eagerly— eagerly ; 
He  parted  back  the  golden  hair 
That  veiled  her  cheek  and  forehead  fair ; 
Why  starts  he  at  that  beauty  rare, 

The  pale  young  lord  of  Ennerslie  ? 

He  called  her  name — she  nothing  said ; 
Upon  his  bosom  drooped  her  head ; 
The  soul  had  from  the  body  fled 

Utterly — utterly  ! 
Slowly  rolled  the  sluggish  tide — 
The  breeze  amid  the  willows  sighed  ; 
"Oh,  God!  the  curse  is  on  me!"  cried 

The  stricken  lord  of  Ennerslie. 


HI 


322  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


SUMMER  NOON-DAY  DREAM. 

The  leaves  are  still,  the  breezes  hushed, 

Or  sing  a  drowsy  number, 
And  all  throughout  the  silent  day 

The  golden  hours  slumber. 
The  ripples  idly  lapse  along 

Beneath  the  noon-tide's  gleaming ; 
Oh,  sure  the  drowsy  summer-time 

Was  made  alone  for  dreaming. 

Within  my  open  window  floats 

A  slumbrous  breath  of  roses, 
And  in  the  softly-shaded  room, 

Silence  itself  reposes : 
And  liquid  lustres  on  the  wall 

Cool,  rippling  waves  resemble, 
As  to  and  fro,  with  motion  slow, 

The  leafy  shadows  tremble. 

A  sense  of  silence  and  repose — 

Of  slow  and  tranquil  motion ; 
A  murmur  as  of  sleeping  winds 

Upon  a  sleeping  ocean, 
And  softly  o'er  my  senses  steak 

A  luxury  Elysian, 
And  all  delights  of  drowsy  thought 

Are  mingled  in  my  vision. 

Oh,  chiding  voices,  wake  me  not, 

Nor  turn  my  rhyme  to  reason — 
For  life  is  mingled  work  and  play, 

And  each  may  have  its  season. 
The  winter-time  for  study's  toil, 

The  spring  for  pleasure's  scheming, 
Autumn  for  the  poet's  thought, 

And  summer-time  for  dreaming! 


SUSAN    ARCHER    TALLEY.  323 


THE  SIRENS. 

Hither,  oh,  hither! 
Wanderer  on  the  dreary  ocean, 
Weary  of  its  wild  commotion, 
Hither  flee, 
Here  are  rest  and  peace  for  thee ! 
Ere  the  day  grow  dim  and  the  night  grow  dark, 
Oh,  hither  speed  your  lonely  bark, 

Hither,  hither ! 
No  storms  disturb  our  peaceful  isle, 

No  tempests  wreck  our  happy  shore ; 
All  in  calm  repose  doth  smile, 
All  is  rest  forevermore, 
Evermore ! 
Hark !  the  waves  on  the  echoing  shore 
Murmur  as  they  softly  pour, 
"  Evermore,  evermore ! 
Peace  and  rest  forevermore!" 

Hither,  hither ! 
"Wherefore  toil  on  the  stormy  main? 

Wherefore  trust  to  the  treacherous  sea? 
Spare  your  labor,  spare  your  pain, 
Come  and  rest  ye,  e'en  as  we ! 
All  things  rest,  and  why  not  ye  ? 
All  from  life  hath  gladness  won, 
Why  should  care  be  thine  alone  ? 
Lo !  see  ye  not  how  the  playful  waves 

Come  laughing  up  from  the  restless  sea, 
Chasing  each  in  their  careless  glee, 
Merrily,  merrily ! 
And  the  halcyons  swing  with  their  snowy  breasts, 
I'll  and  down  on  the  billows'  crests, 
That  come  and  go, 
To  and  fro, 


324  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Softly,  dreamily,  and  slow, 
Murmuring  in  quiet  measure 
Lowly  tones  of  drowsy  pleasure ; 
Till  all  happy  things  that  glide 
Underneath  the  emerald  tide 
Linger,  and  with  wistful  eye 
Glance  them  upward  silently, 

Silently  ; 
Swaying  as  they  idly  lie 

To  and  fro, 

Soft  and  slow, 
To  the  sea's  wild  melody. 

Hither,  hither ! 
Would  ye  revel  in  beauty's  light, 

Come  where  beauty  forever  smiles ; 
Would  ye  feast  upon  life's  delight, 

Haste,  oh,  haste  to  our  happy  isles. 
Here,  amid  wealth  of  fragrant  flowers, 

Deep  in  the  cooling  shade  we  lie, 
Here  we  rest,  while  the  charmed  hours 

Float  in  their  languid  beauty  by ; 

Over  us  float  as  we  dreaming  lie, 
Lazily,  lazily! 
And  we  upward  reach  where  the  clusters  swell 

Rich  and  rare  in  the  ripening  sun, 

And  we  daintily  pluck  them,  one  by  one, 
And  press  their  juice  in  a  pearly  shell ; 

And  our  love-lit  eyes  more  brightly  shine 

As  we  bathe  our  lips  in  the  ruby  wine ; 
While  over  our  shoulders  white  and  bare, 
O'er  blushing  cheek  and  forehead  fair, 
Falleth  a  wealth  of  golden  hair, 

Rippling  down,  softly  down, 

From  under  the  perfumed  myrtle  crown  : 
And  the  Spirit  of  Life,  as  the  wine  we  sip, 
Flushes  in  heart,  and  cheek,  and  lip, 


SUSAN  ARCHER  TALLEY.  325 

Wanning  and  thrilling  us  through  and  through, 
And  the  love  and  the  heauty  are  all  for  you, 
All  for  you ! 

nither,  hither! 
Spread  your  sails  to  the  wooing  winds, 

Speed  your  hark  to  our  happy  shore, 
"Where  love  and  joy  in  a  circle  binds 

The  charmed  hours  forevermore, 
Evermore ! 
Ilark  !  the  waves  on  the  echoing  shore 
Murmur  as  they  softly  pour, 

"  Evermore,  evermore ! 

Love  and  joy  forevermore  !" 


BY  THE  WINDOW. 

By  the  window,  when  the  sunset 
Crimsons  all  the  glowing  west, 

Sit  I  with  my  favorite  poet 
In  his  golden  fancies  blest ; 

And  a  flood  of  rarest  music 

Thrills  through  all  my  raptured  breast. 

By  the  window,  in  the  twilight, 
With  the  book  upon  my  knee, 

Yield  I  to  a  quiet  musing, 
To  a  blissful  reverie, 

Till,  from  out  the  purple  heavens 
Blessings  seem  to  fall  on  me. 

By  the  window,  when  the  moonlight 
Falls  through  jasmin  boughs,  I  wait — 

■Watching  with  unquiet  pleasure, 
Half  subdued  and  half  elate, 

For  the  form  that  soon  BnaU  enter 
At  the  bowered  garden  gate. 


32G  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

By  the  window,  in  the  starlight, 
Many  a  happy  hour  we  spend ; 

And  as  moonlight  with  the  starlight, 
So  our  thoughts  together  Mend ; 

And  we  thank  God  for  the  loving 
That  His  greater  love  doth  send. 


REST. 

Lay  him  gently  to  his  rest, 

Fold  his  pale  hands  on  his  breast ; 

From  his  brow — 
Oh,  how  cold  and  marble  fair  ! — 
Softly  part  the  tangled  hair ; 

Look  upon  him  now  ! 
As  a  weary  child  he  lies, 
"With  the  quiet,  dreamless  eyes 

O'er  which  the  lashes  darkly  sweep — 
And  on  his  lip  the  quiet  smile, 

The  soul's  adieu  to  earthly  strife, 
And  on  his  face  the  deep  repose 

We  never  saw  in  life. 
Peaceful  be  his  rest  and  deep : 

Let  him  sleep ! 

No  tears  for  him — he  needs  them  not. 
Along  life's  drear  and  toilsome  road 
Firmly  his  manly  footsteps  trode, 
Striving  to  bear  his  weary  lot. 
With  such  a  pride  upon  his  brow, 

With  such  a  pain  within  his  heart — 
The  firmness  of  the  manly  will 

Veiling  the  secret  smart. 
Oh,  it  is  well  the  strife  is  o'er, 

That  thus  so  peacefully  he  lies, 
Unheeding  now  the  bitter  words, 

The  cold,  unpitying  eyes. 


SUSAN    ARCHER    TALLEY.  327 

Fold  his  mantle  o'er  Lis  breast, 
Peaceful  be  his  sleep,  and  blest ; 
Let  hiui  rest ! 

No  sigh  to  breathe  above  his  bier, 

No  tear  to  stain  the  marble  brow, 
Only  with  tender  pitying  love, 
Only  with  faith  that  looks  above, 

We  gaze  upon  him  now  ; 
No  thought  of  toil  and  suffering  past — 

But  joy  to  think  the  task  is  done, 
The  heavy  cross  at  last  laid  down, 

The  crown  of  glory  won. 
Oh,  bear  him  gently  to  his  rest, 

Oh,  gently  pile  the  flowery  sod, 
And  leave  his  body  to  the  dust, 

His  spirit  with  his  God ! 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS. 

It  is  not  many  months  since  the  reading  world  was  electri- 
fied by  the  advent  of  a  book  bearing  the  modest  name  of 
"  Beulah."  There  was  nothing  wonderful  in  the  appearance  of 
a  new  novel,  written  by  a  woman ';  this  was  a  ruling  feature  of 
the  day.' '  But  it  was  evident  that  "  Beulah  "  did  not  run  in  the 
usual  groove.  Some  unfamiliar  domain  of  fancy  or  theory  had 
been  invaded  ;  a  vein  had  been  struck  which  gave  out  the  ring 
of  golden  ore,  and  all  were  on  the  qui  woe.  The  scholastic  tone 
of  the  book,  its  analytic  subtleties,  range  and  research,  indicated 
an  author  of  advanced  years,  a  rigid  student,  and  a  sturdy  indi- 
vidualism. The  press  teemed  with  generous  notices ;  the  cavillers 
were  a  harmless  minority.  One  of  the  latter  at  last  discovered 
that  much  of  the  book  was  stolen  from  Dickens'  "  Bleak  House  ;" 
but  as  the  author  had  never  read  "  Bleak  House  "  and  was,  in 
her  own  words,  "  as  ignorant  of  its  style  and  plot  as  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  Brahmins,  locked  up  in  Sanscrit "  (mysteries 
which,  we  doubt  not,  have  tantalized  her  investigating  mind 
cprite  as  much  as  Blue  Beard's  secret  ever  haunted  the  brain  of 
Fatima),  the  sorry  shot  fell  without  effect.  To  whatever  criti- 
cism the  book  might  be  open,  it  certainly  could  not  well  be 
charged  with  plagiarism.  Its  dominant  spirit  was  a  dogged 
independence  of  thought  and  action.  The  downright,  upright, 
outright  author  of  "  Beulah "  could  scarcely  be  accused  of 
filching. 

As  a  climacteric,  then  came  the  intelligence  that  the  writer 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  329 

was  not  a  fossil  specimen  of  the  genus  woman,  or  philosopher, 
but  a  girl  of  twenty-three  years,  whose  knowledge  of  life 
extended  little  beyond  her  books,  her  home,  a  few  choice 
friends,  and  her  own  intuitions.  The  book,  "  Beulah,"  ran 
rapidly  through  one  edition  after  another,  and  has,  at  this 
writing,  readied  a  circulation  of  twenty-one  thousand  copies. 

Augusta  J.  Evans  was  born  near  Columbus,  Georgia.  She 
is  the  eldest  of  eight  children,  and  a  descendant,  on  the  maternal 
side,  from  the  Howards,  one  of  the  most  honorable  families  of 
the  State.  When  she  was  a  mere  child,  her  father  removed 
with  his  family  to  Texas.  The  succeeding  year  was  divided 
between  Galveston  and  Houston,  and,  early  in  1S47,  they  again 
removed  to  the  then  frontier  town  of  San  Antonio. 

Miss  Evans  has  a  vivid  remembrance  of  this  phase  of  her 
life.  The  Mexican  war  was  then  at  its  height,  and  San  Antonio 
was  a  place  of  rendezvous  for  the  United  States  troops,  sent  to 
reinforce  Gen.  Taylor.  Between  the  lawlessness  of  the  soldiery, 
and  the  incongruous  nature  of  the  population,  society  was  in  a 
thoroughly  disorganized  state.  There  were  no  schools  worth 
the  name,  and  her  mother,  who  is  said  to  be  a  woman  of  great 
intelligence  and  culture,  as  well  as  rare  moral  excellence,  took 
upon  herself  the  office  of  educator. 

The  childhood  of  our  author  was  somewhat  isolated  and 
lonely.  Her  brothers  were  too  young  to  share  even  in  her 
girlish  sports,  and  only  to  her  mother  and  her  books  could  she 
look  for  companionship.  Doubtless  to  this  fact  may  be  traced, 
in  a  great  measure,  the  precocious  habits  of  thought  and 
research  which  distinguish  her  writings. 

It  was  in  San  Antonio  that  the  idea  of  authorship  first 
dawned  upon  her.  In  a  characteristic  letter,  just  received,  she 
says : 

"I  remember  rambling  about  the  crumbling  walls  of  the 
Alamo,  recalling  all  its  bloody  horrors;  and  as  I  climbed  the 


330  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

moldering,  melancholy  pile,  to  watch  the  last  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  gild  the  hill-tops,  creep  down  the  sides,  and  slowly 
sink  into  the  blue  waves  of  the  San  Antonio  River  :  as  I  looked 
over  the  quietly  beautiful  valley,  with  its  once  noble  Alameda 
of  stately  cottonwoods,  my  heart  throbbed,  and  I  wondered  if  I 
should  be  aide,  some  clay,  to  write  about  it  for  those  who  had 
never  looked  upon  a  scene  so  fair.  I  seem,  even  now,  to  be 
winding  once  more  through  that  lovely  valley,  holding  my 
mother's  hand  tightly,  as  she  repeated  beautiful  descriptions 
from  Thomson's  '  Seasons '  and  Cowper's  '  Task  ;'  again  I  see 
the  white  flock  slowly  descending  the  hills,  and  bleating  as 
they  wound  home  to  my  father's  fold." 

After  a  two  years'  residence  at  San  Antonio,  the  family 
removed  to  Alabama,  and  setted  in  Mobile,  where  they  now 
reside.  Here  our  author  was  placed  for  a  brief  time  at  school, 
but  her  health  beginning  to  fail,  her  mother  became  again  her 
companion  and  instructor. 

Early  in  her  seventeenth  year,  she  wrote  "  Inez,  a  Tale  of 
the  Alamo  ;"  in  which  she  designed  to  show  the  abuses  of  papacy, 
as  they  were  revealed  to  her  in  San  Antonio,  and  to  embody 
the  principal  features  of  the  Texan  War  of  Independence.  N o 
one  but  her  mother  knew  of  her  ambitious  project,  and  one 
Christmas  morning  she  placed  the  MS.  in  the  hands  of  her 
father  as  a  Christmas  surprise.  This  work  was  brought  out 
anonymously,  in  1S55.  It  is  marked  by  the  same  features  which 
give  to  her  later  work  its  stern  individuality,  though  it  is  less 
happy  in  style  and  artistic  effect.  We  do  not  expect  a  mere 
school-girl  to  leap  at  once  into  the  finished  and  ornate  manner 
of  the  practised  writer.  "Inez  "  was  noticed  very  favorably  by 
the  press,  with  the  exception  of  the  Catholic  journals,  which,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  took  umbrage  at  her  strictures  upon  papacy, 
and  charged  at  the  young  heretic  with  might  and  main. 

With  this  experience  in  the   way  of   "  bitter-sweet,"'   our 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  331 

author  continued  her  studies,  and,  for  three  years,  wrote  lit- 
tle, except  hook  notices  for  the  Mobile  papers;  very  wisely 
reserving  forces  for  the  work  which  was  to  ffive  her  name  to 
fame. 

In  the  autumn  of  1S59,  "Beulah"  was  published,  with  the 
name  of  the  author,  by  Messrs.  Derby  &  Jackson,  and  from  that 
time  to  the  present,  has  been  constantly  in  the  eye  of  the  public. 
Skepticism  is  the  Upas  tree  of  the  age.  Its  poisonous  roots 
underlie  some  of  our  fairest  gardens  of  mental  and  spiritual 
culture.  Its  baneful  breath  is  everywhere.  "We  have  lost  the 
sweet  trusting  faith  of  our  fathers.  We  glory  in  our  profundity, 
in  our  logical  acumen,  in  the  audacity  of  our  unbelief.  Nothing 
is  too  high,  nothing  too  deep  for  our  comprehension.  Whatever 
looms  beyond  the  magnificent  reach  of  our  thought,  or  shuts 
out  from  the  grand  sweep  of  our  horizon,  is  a  delusion.  "We 
will  have  none  of  it.  At  this  pernicious  growth  among  us, 
this  book  is  aimed.  The  author  of  "Beulah"  is  terribly  in 
earnest.  She  herself  has  evidently  traversed  the  whole  waste 
of  rationalism,  over  which  we  slowly  and  painfully  follow  her 
heroine.  She  takes  "Beulah"  by  the  hand  and  goes  over  the 
ground  with  merciless  fidelity  ;  not  a  doubt  is  left  unturned. 
Every  dragon  of  speculation  which  once  assailed  her  is 
unearthed,  and  over  again  is  fought  the  strong  battle.  We 
wrestle  ourselves,  and  grow  old,  and  wasted,  and  haggard,  in  the 
protracted  contest.  This  intensely  vitalized  action  of  the  book 
is  its  grand  feature  and  fulcrum ;  effecting  more  than  whole 
folios  of  mere  argument. 

Hut  Beulah  Benton  and  Guy  Hartwell  are  much  more 
familiar  with  Carlyle's  "  Ilerr  Teufelsdrockh  "  than  with  <  >vid's 
••  Art  <>f  Love."  They  make  a  grim  pair  of  lovers  enough,  and 
throw  into  spasms. if  impatience  all  who  are  wading  through 
"ontology,"  "psychology,"  "eclecticism,"  etc.,  merely  for 
some  green  isle  of  "billing  and  cooing ;"  but  they  belong  to 


332  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

an  existing  type,  and  are  in  keeping  with  the  austere,  determi- 
nate character  of  the  hook. 

"  Beulah  "  is  perhaps,  more  than  anything  else,  a  bounteous 
jjromise.  If  at  twenty-three  the  writer  can  bring  so  much,  what 
may  we  not  expect  of  her  riper  years  ? 

Notwithstanding  the  celebrity  which  she  lias  suddenly 
achieved,  Miss  Evans  is  still  much  of  a  recluse.  The  habits 
formed  in  earlier  life  have  become  a  part  of  her  nature,  and  she 
finds  in  her  home,  her  books,  music,  and  flowers,  her  truest 
happiness.  In  her  mother,  especially,  do  her  purest  affections 
seem  to  centre.  "She  is,  in  every  sense,  my  Alma  Mater,"  she 
writes,  "  the  one  to  whom  I  owe  everything,  and  whom  I  rever- 
ence more  than  all  else  on  earth." 

A  fondness  for  metaphysical  subtleties,  and  a  constant  incli- 
nation to  turn  to  philosophic  studies,  would  seem  to  be  normal 
characteristics  of  our  author's  mind,  and  not  altogether  the 
result  of  circumstance  and  culture.  From  her  childhood  she 
has  been  much  given  to  speculation  and  analysis,  subjecting 
every  theory  or  system,  which  came  under  her  notice,  to  the 
most  rigid  scrutiny,  and  then  taking  positive  ground  with  regard 
to  it.  Thus,  in  reading  "  Inez,"  one  would  suppose  that  she  had 
devoted  her  short  life  to  a  study  of  the  arts,  and  perversions  of 
papacy;  while  "Beulah"  would  seem  to  be  the  result  of  at 
least  a  half  century  of  metaphysical  and  philosophic  research. 

In  her  cottage  home,  a  little  distance  from  Mobile,  within 
view  of  the  "piney  woods,"  whose  soughing  music  sets  itself  to 
a  sweet  monotone  of  her  nature,  Miss  Evans  moves  quietly  on 
her  way,  filling  the  days  with  steady  application,  and  those 
unobtrusive,  kindly  acts,  which,  more  than  any  other,  do  beau- 
tify and  ennoble  character.  Some  abstruse  subject  is  doubtless, 
even  now,  simmering  in  her  mental  crucible,  soon  to  be  trans- 
muted by  a  subtle  alchemy  into  crystals  of  truth. 


AUGUSTA    J.   EVANS. 


LILLY'S  DEATH. 


Several  tedious  weeks  had  rolled  away,  since  Eugene  Graham  left  his 
sunny  southern  home,  to  seek  learning  in  the  venerable  universities  of  the 
old  world.  Blue-eyed  May,  the  carnival  month  of  the  year,  had  clothed  the 
earth  with  verdure,  and  enamelled  it  with  flowers  of  every  hue,  scattering 
her  treasures  before  the  rushing  car  of  summer.  During  the  winter,  scarlet 
fever  had  hovered  threateningly  over  the  city,  but  as  the  spring  advanced, 
hopes  were  entertained  that  all  danger  had  passed.  Consequently,  when  it 
was  announced  that  the  disease  had  made  its  appearance  in  a  very  malignant 
form,  in  the  house  adjoining  Mrs.  Martin's,  she  determined  to  send  her  chil- 
dren out  of  town.  A  relative,  living  at  some  distance  up  the  river,  happened 
to  be  visiting  her  at  the  time,  and  as  she  intended  returning  home  the  fol- 
lowing day,  kindly  offered  to  take  charge  of  the  children,  until  all  traces  of 
the  disease  had  vanished.  To  this  plan,  Beulah  made  no  resistance,  though 
the  memory  of  her  little  sister  haunted  her  hourly.  What  could  she  do  1 
Make  one  last  attempt  to  see  her,  and  if  again  refused,  then  it  mattered  not 
whither  she  went.  "When  the  preparations  for  their  journey  had  been  com- 
pleted, and  Johnny  slept  soundly  in  his  crib,  Beulah  put  on  her  old  straw 
bonnet,  and  set  out  for  Mr.  Grayson's  residence.  The  sun  was  low  in  the 
sky,  and  the  evening  breeze  rippling  the  waters  of  the  bay,  stirred  the  luxu- 
riant foliage  of  the  ancient  china-trees  that  bordered  the  pavements.  The 
orphan's  heart  was  heavy  with  undefined  dread ;  such  a  dread  as  had 
oppressed  her  the  day  of  her  separation  from  her  sister. 

"  Coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before," 

And  she  was  conscious  that  the  sun-set  glow  could  not  dispel  the  spectral 
gloom  which  enveloped  her.  She  walked  on,  with  her  head  bowed,  like  one 
stooping  from  an  impending  blow,  and  when  at  last  the  crouching  lions  con- 
fronted her,  she  felt  as  if  her  heart  had  suddenly  frozen.  There  stood  the 
doctor's  buggy.  She  sprang  up  the  steps,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the 
bolt  of  the  dour.     Long  streamers  of  crape  floated  through  her  fingers.     She 

si ]  still  a  moment,  then  threw  open  the  door,  and  rushed  in.     The  hall 

floor  was  covered  to  muffle  the  tread;  not  a  sound  reached  her,  save  the 
stirring  of  the  china-trees  outside.      Her  hand  was  on  the  balustrade  to 


334  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

ascend  the  steps,  but  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  piece  of  crape  fastened  to  the 
parlor  door,  and  pushing  it  ajar  she  looked  in.  The  furniture  was  draped; 
even  the  mirrors,  and  pictures,  and  on  a  small  oblong  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  lay  a  shrouded  form.  An  overpowering  perfume  of  crushed 
flowers  filled  the  air,  and  Beulah  stood  on  the  threshold,  with  her  hands 
extended,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  table.  There  were  two  children  ; 
Lilly  might  yet  live,  and  an  unvoiced  prayer  went  up  to  God,  that  the  dead 
might  be  Claudia.  Then  like  scathing  lightning  came  the  recollection  of  her 
curse ;  "  May  God  answer  their  prayers,  as  they  answered  mine."  With 
rigid  limbs  she  tottered  to  the  table,  and  laid  her  hands  on  the  velvet  pall ; 
with  closed  eyes  she  drew  it  down,  then  held  her  breath  and  looked.  There 
lay  her  idol,  in  the  marble  arms  of  death.  Ah!  how  matchlessly  beautiful, 
wrapped  in  her  last  sleep !  The  bright  golden  curls  glittered  around  the 
snowy  brow,  and  floated  like  wandering  sunlight  over  the  arms  and  shoul- 
ders. The  tiny  waxen  fingers  clasped  each  other  as  in  life,  and  the  delicately 
chiselled  lips  were  just  parted,  as  though  the  sleeper  whispered.  Beulah's 
gaze  dwelt  upon  this  mocking  loveliness,  then  the  arms  were  thrown  wildly 
up,  and  with  a  long,  wailing  cry,  her  head  sank  heavily  on  the  velvet 
cushion,  beside  the  cold  face  of  her  dead  darling.  How  long  it  rested  there, 
she  never  knew.  Earth  seemed  to  pass  away ;  darkness  closed  over  her,  and 
for  a  time  she  had  no  pain,  no  sorrow ;  she  and  Lilly  were  together.  All 
was  black,  and  she  had  no  feeling.  Then  she  was  lifted,  and  the  motion 
aroused  her  torpid  faculties ;  she  moaned  and  opened  her  eyes.  Dr.  Hart- 
well  was  placing  her  on  a  sofa,  and  Mrs.  Grayson  stood  by  the  table  with  a 
handkerchief  over  her  eyes.  With  returning  consciousness  came  a  raving 
despair  ;  Beulah  sprang  from  the  strong  arm  that  strove  to  detain  her,  and 
laying  one  clinched  hand  on  the  folded  fingers  of  the  dead,  raised  the  other 
fiercely  toward  Mrs.  Grayson,  and  exclaimed  almost  frantically  : 

"  You  have  murdered  her !  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  when  you  took  my 
darling  from  my  arms,  and  refused  my  prayer!  Aye!  my  prayer!  I  knelt 
and  prayed  you  in  the  name  of  God,  to  let  me  see  her  once  more;  to  let  me 
hold  her  to  my  heart,  and  kiss  her  lips,  and  her  forehead,  and  little  slender 
hands.  You  scorned  a  poor  girl's  prayer  ;  you  taunted  me  with  my  poverty, 
and  locked  me  from  my  darling,  my  Lilly !  my  all !  Oh,  woman !  you  drove 
me  wild,  and  I  cursed  you  and  your  husband.  Ha!  has  your  wealth  and 
splendor  saved  her  ?  God  have  mercy  upon  me;  I  feel  as  if  I  could  curse 
vou  eternally.  Could  you  not  have  sent  for  me  before  she  died?  Oh,  if  I 
could  only  have  taken  her  in  my  arms,  and  seen  her  soft  angel  eyes  looking 


AUGUSTA    J.   EVAXS. 


335 


up  to  me,  and  felt  her  little  arms  around  my  neck,  and  heard  her  say  '  sister 
for  the  last  time !  Would  it  have  taken  a  dime  from  your  purse,  or  made 
you  less  fashionable,  to  have  sent  for  me  before  she  died  ?  '  Such  measure 
as  ye  mete,  shall  be  meted  to  you  again.'  May  you  live  to  have  your  heart 
trampled  and  crushed,  even  as  you  have  trampled  mine !" 

Her  arm  sank  to  her  side,  and  once  more  the  blazing  eyes  were  fastened 
on  the  young  sleeper ;  while  Mrs.  Grayson,  cowering  like  a  frightened  child, 
left  the  room.  Beulah  fell  on  her  knees,  and  crossing  her  arms  on  the  table, 
bowed  her  head  ;  now  and  then,  broken,  wailing  tones  passed  the  white  lips. 
r>r.  Hartwell  stood  in  a  recess  of  the  window,  with  folded  arms  and  tightly 
compressed  mouth,  watching  the  young  mourner.  Once  he  moved  toward 
her,  then  drew  back,  and  a  derisive  smile  distorted  his  features,  as  though 
lie  scorned  himself  for  the  momentary  weakness.  He  turned  suddenly  away, 
and  reached  the  door,  but  paused  to  look  back.  The  old  straw  bonnet,  with 
its  faded  pink  ribbon,  had  fallen  off,  and  heavy  folds  of  black  hair  veiled  the 
bowed  face.  lie  noted  the  slight,  quivering  form,  and  the  thin  hands,  and  a 
look  of  remorseful  agony  swept  over  his  countenance.  A  deadly  pallor 
settled  on  cheek  and  brow,  as,  with  an  expression  of  iron  resolve,  he 
retraced  his  steps,  and  putting  his  hand  on  the  orphan's  shoulder,  said 
gently  : 

"  Beulah,  this  is  no  place  for  you.     Come  with  me,  child." 

She  shrank  from  his  touch,  and  put  up  one  hand,  waving  him  off. 

'•Your  sister  died  with  the  scarlet  fever,  and  Claudia  is  now  very  ill  with 
it.     If  you  stay  here,  you  will  certainly  take  it  yourself." 

'■I  hope  I  shall  take  it." 

He  laid  his  fingers  on  the  pale  high  brow,  and  softly  drawing  back  the 
thick  hair,  said  earnestly  : 

"  Beulah,  come  home  with  me.     Be  my  child :  my  daughter.'' 

Again  her  hand  was  raised  to  put  him  aside. 

'•  Xo  :  you  would  hate  me  for  my  ugliness.  Let  me  hide  it  in  the  grave 
with  Lilly.     They  cannot  separate  us  there." 

Be  lifted  her  head ;  and,  looking  down  into  the  haggard  face,  answered 
kindly  : 

"I  promise  you  I  will  not  think  you  ugly.  I  will  make  you  happy. 
Come  to  me,  child." 

she  shook  her  head,  with  a  moan.  Passing  his  arm  around  her,  he 
raised  her  from  the  carpet,  and  leaned  her  head  against  him. 

"Poor  little  sufferer!  they  have  made  you  drink,  prematurely,  earth's 


336  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

bitter  draughts.  They  have  disenchanted  your  childhood  of  its  fairy-like 
future.  Beulah,  you  are  ill  now.  Do  not  struggle  so.  You  must  come  with 
me,  my  child." 

He  took  her  in  his  strong  arms,  and  bore  her  out  of  the  house  of  death. 
His  buggy  stood  at  the  door,  and,  seating  himself  in  it,  he  directed  the  boy 
who  accompanied  him  to  "drive  home."  Beulah  offered  no  resistance;  she 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sat  quite  still,  scarcely  conscious  of  what 
passed.  She  knew  that  a  firm  arm  held  her  securely,  and,  save  her  wretched- 
ness, knew  nothing  else.  Soon  she  was  lifted  out  of  the  buggy,  carried  up 
a  flight  of  steps,  and  then  a  flood  of  light  passed  through  the  fingers,  upon 
her  closed  eyelids.  Dr.  Hartwell  placed  his  charge  on  a  sofa,  and  rang  the 
bell.  The  summons  was  promptly  answered  by  a  negro  woman  of  middle 
age.  She  stood  at  the  door  awaiting  the  order,  but  his  eyes  were  bent  on 
the  floor,  and  his  brows  knitted. 
"  Master,  did  you  ring?" 
"  Yes,  tell  my  sister  to  come  to  me." 

He  took  a  turn  across  across  the  floor,  and  paused  by  the  open  window. 
As  the  night  air  rustled  the  brown  locks  on  his  temples,  he  sighed  deeply. 
The  door  opened,  and  a  tall,  slender  woman,  of  perhaps  thirty-five  years, 
entered  the  room.  She  was  pale  and  handsome,  with  a  profusion  of  short 
chestnut  curls  about  her  face.  With  her  hand  resting  on  the  door,  she  said 
in  a  calm,  clear  tone  : 
-  Well,  Guy  ?" 

He  started,  and  turning  from  the  window,  approached  her. 
'•  May,  I  want  a  room  arranged  for  this  child  as  soon  as  possible.     Will 
you  see  that  a  hot  foot-bath  is  provided?     When  it  is  ready,  send  Harriet 
for  her." 

His  sister's  lips  curled  as  she  looked  searchingly  at  the  figure  on  the  sofa, 

and  said,  coldly  : 

"  What  freak  now,  Guy?" 

For  a  moment  their  eyes  met  steadily,  and  he  smiled  grimly. 

"  I  intend  to  adopt  that  poor  orphan  ;  that  is  all !" 

"  Where  did  you  pick  her  up,  at  the  hospital  ?"  said  she  sneeringly. 

"  No,  she  has  been  hired  as  a  nurse,  at  a  boarding-house." 

He  folded  his  arms,  and  again  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"  I  thought  you  had  had  quite  enough  of  proteges." 

She  nervously  clasped  and  unclasped  her  jet  bracelet. 

"  Take  care,  May  Chilton !     Mark  me.     Lift  the  pall  from  the  past  once 


AUGUSTA    J.  EVANS.  3 


37 


more,  and  you  and  Pauline  must  find  another  home,  another  protector. 
Now,  will  you  set-  that  a  room  is  prepared  as  I  directed.'' 

He  was  very  pale,  and  his  eyes  burned  fiercely,  yet  his  tone  was  calm 
and  subdued.  Mrs.  Chilton  bit  her  lips,  and  withdrew.  Dr.  Hartwell 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  awhile,  now  and  then  looking  sadly  at  the 
young  stranger.  She  sat  just  as  he  had  placed  her,  with  her  hands  over  her 
face.     Kindly  he  bent  down,  and  whispered : 

"  Will  you  trust  me,  Beulah  ?" 

She  made  no  answer,  but  he  saw  her  brow  wrinkle,  and  knew  that  she 
shuddered.  The  servant  came  in  to  say  that  the  room  had  been  arranged,  as 
he  had  directed.  However  surprised  she  might  have  been  at  this  sudden 
advent  of  the  simply  clad  orphan  in  her  master's  study,  there  was  not  the 
faintest  indication  of  it  in  her  impenetrable  countenance.  Not  even  the 
raising  of  an  eyebrow. 

"  Harriet,  see  that  her  feet  are  well  bathed ;  and,  when  she  is  in  bed, 
come  for  some  medicine." 

Then,  drawing  the  hands  from  her  eyes,  he  said  to  Beulah : 

"  Go  with  her,  my  child.  I  am  glad  I  have  you  safe  under  my  own  roof, 
where  no  more  cruel  injustice  can  assail  you." 

He  pressed  her  hand  kindly,  and,  rising  mechanically,  Beulah  accom- 
panied Harriet,  who  considerately  supported  the  drooping  form.  The  room 
to  which  sho  was  conducted  was  richly  furnished,  and  lighted  by  an  elegant 
colored  lamp,  suspended  from  the  ceiling.  Mrs.  Chilton  stood  near  an  arm- 
chair, looking  moody  and  abstracted.  Harriet  carefully  undressed  the  poor 
mourner,  and  wrapping  a  shawl  about  her,  placed  her  in  the  chair,  and  bathed 
her  feet.  Mrs.  Chilton  watched  her  with  ill-concealed  impatience.  When 
the  little  dripping  feet  were  dried,  Harriet  lifted  her,  as  if  she  had  been  an 
infant,  and  placed  her  in  bed,  then  brought  the  medicine  from  the  study,  and 
administered  a  spoonful  of  the  mixture.  Placing  her  finger  on  the  girl's 
wrist,  she  counted  the  rapid  pulse,  and  turning  unconcernedly  toward  Mrs. 
Chilton,  said  : 

"  Miss  May,  master  says  yon  need  not  trouble  about  the  medicine.  I  am 
to  sleep  in  the  room  and  take  care  of  this  little  girl." 

"  Very  well.  See  that  she  is  properly  attended  to,  as  my  brother  directed. 
My  head  aches  miserably,  or  I  should  remain  myself." 

She  glanced  at  the  bed.  and  left  the  room.  Harriet  leaned  over  the  pillow 
and  examined  the  orphan's  countenance.     The  eyes  were  closed,  but  scalding 

22 


338  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

tears  rolled  swiftly  over  the  cheeks,  and  the  hands  were  clasped  over  the  hrow, 
as  if  to  still  its  throbhings.     Harriet's  face  softened,  and  she  said  kindly  : 
"  Poor  thing !  what  ails  you  ?     What  makes  you  cry  so  ?" 
Beulah  pressed  her  head  closer  to  the  pillow,  and  murmured  : 
"  I  am  so  miserable  !  I  want  to  die,  and  God  will  not  take  me." 
"  Don't  say  that,  till  you  see  whether  you've  got  the  scarlet  fever.     If  you 
have,  you  are  likely  to  be  taken  pretty  soon,  I  can  tell  you ;  and  if  you 
haven't,  why,  it's  all  for  the  best.     It  is  a  bad  plan  to  fly  in  the  Almighty's 
face,  that  way,  and  tell  him  what  he  shall  do,  and  what  he  shan't." 

This  philosophic  response  fell  unheeded  on  poor  Beulah's  ears,  and  Har- 
riet was  about  to  inquire  more  minutely  into  the  cause  of  her  grief,  but  she 
perceived  her  master  standing  beside  her,  and  immediately  moved  away 
from  the  bed.  Drawing  out  his  watch,  he  counted  the  pulse  several  times. 
The  result  seemed  to  trouble  him,  and  he  stood  for  some  minutes  watching 
the  motionless  form. 

"  Harriet,  bring  me  a  glass  of  ice-water." 

Laying  his  cool  hand  on  the  hot  forehead  of  the  suffering  girl,  he  said, 
tenderly : 

"  My  child,  try  not  to  cry  any  more  to-night.  It  is  very  bitter,  I  know  ; 
but  remember,  that  though  Lilly  has  been  taken  from  you,  from  this  day 
you  have  a  friend,  a  home,  a  guardian." 

Harriet  proffered  the  glass  of  water.  He  took  it,  raised  the  head,  and 
put  the  sparkling  draught  to  Beulah's  parched  lips.  Without  unclosing  her 
eyes,  she  drank  the  last  crystal  drop,  and  laying  the  head  back  on  the  pillow, 
he  drew  an  arm-chair  before  the  window  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  and 
seated  himself. 

BEULAH  BENTON  AND  GUY  HARTWELL  AS  LOVERS. 

The  door  stood  open,  and  with  bonnet  and  shawl  in  her  hand,  she  entered, 
little  prepared  to  meet  her  guardian,  for  she  had  absented  herself,  with  the 
hope  of  avoiding  him.  He  was  sitting  by  a  table,  preparing  some  medicine, 
and  looked  up  involuntarily  as  she  came  in.  His  eyes  lightened  instantly, 
but  he  merely  said : 

"  Good  evening,  Beulah." 

The  tone  was  less  icy  than  on  previous  occasions,  and  crossing  the  room 
at  once,  she  stood  beside  him,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  How  are  you,  sir?" 


AUGUSTA    J.   EVANS.  339 

He  did  not  take  the  band,  but  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  said : 

'•  You  are  an  admirable  nurse,  to  go  off  and  leave  your  sick  friend." 

Beulah  threw  down  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  retreating  to  the  hearth, 
began  to  warm  her  fingers,  as  she  replied,  with  indifference  : 

"  I  have  just  left  another  of  your  patients.  Cornelia  Graham  has  been 
worse  than  usual  for  a  day  or  two.  Clara,  I  will  put  away  my  out-door 
wrappings,  and  be  with  you  presently."  She  retired  to  her  own  room,  and 
leaning  against  the  window,  where  the  rain  was  now  pattering  drearily,  she 
murmured  faintly : 

"  Will  he  always  treat  me  so  ?  Have  I  lost  my  friend  forever  ?  Once  he 
was  so  different ;  so  kind,  even  in  his  sternness!"  A  tear  hung  upon  her 
lash,  and  fell  on  her  hand ;  she  brushed  it  hastily  away,  and  stood  thinking 
over  this  alienation,  so  painful  and  unnatural,  when  she  heard  her  guardian 
close  Clara's  door,  and  walk  across  the  hall,  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She 
waited  awhile,  until  she  thought  he  had  reached  his  buggy,  and  slowly  pro- 
ceeded to  Clara's  room.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor,  and  her  hand  was 
already  on  the  bolt  of  the  door,  when  a  deep  voice  startled  her. 

"Beulah!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  proudly.  Resentment  had  usurped  the  place  of 
grief.  But  she  could  not  bear  the  earnest  eyes,  that  looked  into  hers  with 
such  misty  splendor ;  and  provoked  at  her  own  emotion,  she  asked,  coldly  : 

"  What  do  you  want,  sir?" 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  stood  observing  her  closely.  She  felt  the 
hot  blood  rush  into  her  unusually  cold,  pale  face,  and,  despite  her  efforts  to 
seem  perfectly  indifferent,  her  eyelids  and  lips  would  tremble.  His  hand 
rested  lightly  on  her  shoulder,  and  he  spoke  very  gently : 

"Child,  have  you  been  ill?  You  look  wretchedly.  What  ails,  you, 
Beulah!" 

"  Nothing,  sir." 

"  That  will  not  answer.     Tell  me,  child,  tell  me !" 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  as  well  as  usual,"  cried  she,  impatiently,  yet  her  voice 
faltered.  She  was  struggling  desperately  with  her  own  heart.  The  return 
of  his  old  manner,  the  winning  tones  of  his  voice,  affected  her  more  than 
she  was  willing  he  should  see. 

"  Beulah,  you  used  to  be  truthful  and  candid." 

"I  am  so  still,"  she  returned,  stoutly,  though  tears  began  to  gather  in 
her  eyes. 

"  N'o,  child,  already  the  world  has  changed  you." 


340  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

A  shadow  fell  over  his  face,  and  the  sad  eyes  were  like  clouded  stars. 

"  You  know  better,  sir  !  I  am  just  what  I  always  was  !  It  is  you  who 
are  so  changed !  Once  you  were  my  friend ;  my  guardian !  Once  you 
were  kind,  and  guided  me ;  but  now  you  are  stern,  and  bitter,  and 
tyrannical!" 

She  spoke  passionately,  and  tears,  which  she  bravely  tried  to  force  back, 
rolled  swiftly  down  her  cheeks.  His  light  touch  on  her  shoulder  tightened, 
until  it  seemed  a  hand  of  steel,  and  with  an  expression  which  she  never 
forgot,  even  in  after  years,  he  answered  : 

"  Tyrannical !     Not  to  you,  child !" 

"  Yes,  sir,  tyrannical !  cruelly  tyrannical !  Because  I  dared  to  think  and 
act  for  myself,  you  have  cast  me  off — utterly  !  You  try  to  see  how  cold  and 
distant  you  can  be  ;  and  show  me  that  you  don't  care  whether  I  live  or  die, 
so  long  as  I  chose  to  be  independent  of  you.  I  did  not  believe  that  you 
could  ever  be  so  ungenerous  I" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  swimming  eyes.  He  smiled  down  into  her 
tearful  face,  and  asked : 

"  Why  did  you  defy  my,  child  ?" 

"  I  did  not,  sir,  until  you  treated  me  worse  than  the  servants.  Worse 
than  you  did  Charon  even." 

"  How  ?" 

"  How,  indeed !  You  left  me  in  your  own  house  without  one  word  of 
good  bye,  when  you  expected  to  be  absent  an  indefinite  time.  Did  you  sup- 
pose, that  I  would  remain  there  an  hour  after  such  treatment?" 

He  smiled  again,  and  said  in  the  low  musical  tone,  which  she  had  always 
found  so  difficult  to  resist : 

"  Come  back,  my  child.     Come  back  to  me." 

"Never,  sir!     Never!"  answered  she,  resolutely. 

A  stony  hue  settled  on  his  face  ;  the  lips  seemed  instantly  frozen,  and 
removing  his  hand  from  her  shoulder,  he  said,  as  if  talking  to  a  perfect 
stranger : 

"  See  that  Clara  Sanders  needs  nothing  ;  she  is  far  from  being  well." 

He  left  her,  but  her  heart  conquered  for  an  instant,  and  she  sprang  down 
two  steps,  and  caught  his  hand.  Pressing  her  face  against  his  arm,  she 
exclaimed,  brokenly : 

"  Oh,  sir!  do  not  cast  me  off  entirely  !  My  friend,  my  guardian  ;  indeed, 
I  have  not  deserved  this ! 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  bowed  head,  and  said  calmly  : 


AUGUSTA    J.   EVANS.  341 

"  Fierce,  proud  spirit !  Ah  !  it  will  take  long  years  of  trial  and  suffering 
to  tame  you.  Go,  Beulah  !  You  have  cast  yourself  off.  It  was  no  wish,  no 
work  of  mine." 

He  lifted  her  head  from  his  arm,  gently  unclasped  her  fingers,  aud  walked 
away. 

FIRST  STEP  INTO  THE  DARK. 

An  hour  after,  Clara  slept  soundly,  and  Beulah  sat  in  her  own  room  bend- 
ing over  a  book.  Midnight  study  had  long  since  become  a  habitual  thing; 
nay,  two  and  three  o'clock,  frequently  found  her  beside  the  waning  lamp. 
Was  it  any  marvel  that,  as  Dr.  Ilartwell  expressed  it,  "  she  looked  wretch- 
edly?" From  her  earliest  childhood,  she  had  been  possessed  by  an  active 
spirit  of  inquiry,  which  constantly  impelled  her  to  investigate,  and  as  far  as 
possible  to  explain  the  mysteries  which  surrounded  her  on  every  side. 
With  her  growth,  grew  this  haunting  spirit,  which  asked  continually,  "  What 
ami?  Whence  did  I  come  ?  And  whither  ami  bound?  What  is  life? 
What  is  death  ?  Am  I  my  own  mistress,  or  am  I  but  a  tool  in  the  hands  of 
my  Maker?  What  constitutes  the  difference  between  my  mind,  and  my 
body  ?  Is  there  any  difference  ?  If  spirit  must  needs  have  body  to  incase  it, 
and  body  must  have  a  spirit  to  animate  it,  may  they  not  be  identical?  With 
these  primeval  foundation  questions,  began  her  speculative  career.  In  the 
solitude  of  her  own  soul,  she  struggled  bravely  and  earnestly  to  answer  those 
"  dread  questions,  which,  like  swords  of  flaming  fire,  tokens  of  imprison- 
ment, encompass  man  on  earth."  Of  course,  mystery  triumphed.  Panting 
for  the  truth,  she  pored  over  her  Bible,  supposing  that  here,  at  least,  all 
clouds  would  melt  away ;  but  here,  too,  some  inexplicable  passages  confronted 
her.  Physically,  morally  and  mentally,  she  found  the  world  warring.  To  recon- 
cile these  antagonisms  with  the  conditions  and  requirements  of  Holy  Writ, 
she  now  most  faithfully  set  to  work.  Ah,  proudly-aspiring  soul!  How  many 
earnest  thinkers  had  essayed  the  same  mighty  task,  and  died  under  the  into- 
lerable burden  ?  Unluckily  for  her  there  was  no  one  to  direct  or  assist  her. 
she  scrupulously  endeavored  to  conceal  her  doubts  and  questions  from  her 
guardian.  Poor  child !  she  fancied  she  concealed  them  so  effectually  from 
his  knowledge ;  while  he  silently  noted  the  march  of  skepticism  in  her  nature. 
There  were  dim,  puzzling  passages  of  Scripture,  which  she  studied  ou  her 
knees;  now  trying  to  comprehend  them,  and  now  beseeching  the  Source  of 
all   knowledge-   to   enlighten   her.      But,   as  has  happened   to   numberless 


342  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

others,  there  was  seemingly  no  assistance  given.  The  clouds  grew  denser  and 
darker,  and  like  the  "cry  of  strong  swimmers  in  their  agony,"  her  prayers 
had  gone  up  to  the  Throne  of  Grace.  Sometimes  she  was  tempted  to  go  to 
the  minister  of  the  church,  where  she  sat  Sunday  after  Sunday,  and  beg  him 
to  explain  the  mysteries  to  her.  But  the  pompous  austerity  of  his  manners 
repelled  her  whenever  she  thought  of  broaching  the  subject;  and  gradually 
she  saw  that  she  must  work  out  her  own  problems.  Thus,  from  week  to  week 
and  month  to  month,  she  toiled  on,  with  a  slowly  dying  faith,  constantly 
clambering  over  obstacles  which  seemed  to  stand  between  her  trust  and 
revelation.  It  was  no  longer  study  for  the  sake  of  erudition ;  these  riddles 
involved  all  that  she  prized  in  Time  and  Eternity,  and  she  grasped  books  of 
every  description  with  the  eagerness  of  a  famishing  nature.  What  dire 
chance  threw  into  her  hands  such  works  as  Emerson's,  Oarlyle's  and  Goethe's? 
Like  the  waves  of  the  clear,  sunny  sea,  they  only  increased  her  thirst  to 
madness.  Her  burning  lips  were  ever  at  these  fountains ;  and  in  her  reck- 
less eagerness,  she  plunged  into  the  gulf  of  German  speculation.  Here  she 
believed  that  she  had  indeed  found  the  "true  process,"  and  with  renewed 
zest,  continued  the  work  of  questioning.  At  this  stage  of  the  conflict,  the 
pestilential  scourge  was  laid  upon  the  city,  and  she  paused  from  her  meta- 
physical toil  to  close  glazed  eyes  and  shroud  soulless  clay.  In  the  awful  hush 
of  these  hours  of  watching,  she  looked  calmly  for  some  solution,  and  longed 
for  the  unquestioning  faith  of  early  years.  But  these  influences  passed  with- 
out aiding  her  in  the  least,  and  with  rekindled  ardor  she  went  back  to  her 
false  prophets.  In  addition,  ethnology  beckoned  her  on  to  conclusions 
apparently  antagonistic  to  the  revealed  system,  and  the  stony  face  of  geology 
seemed  radiant  with  characters  of  light,  which  she  might  decipher  and  find 
some  security  in.  Erom  Dr.  Asbury's  extensive  collection,  she  snatched 
treatise  after  treatise.  The  sages  of  geology  talked  of  the  pre-Adamic  eras, 
and  of  man's  ending  the  slowly  forged  chain,  of  which  the  radiata  form  the 
lowest  link ;  and  then  she  was  told  that  in  those  pre-Adamic  ages,  Palaeon- 
tologists find  no  trace  whatever  of  that  golden  time,  when  the  vast  animal 
creation  lived  in  harmony,  and  bloodshed  was  unknown ;  ergo,  man's  fall  in 
Eden  had  no  agency  in  bringing  death  into  the  world;  ergo,  the  chapter  in 
Genesis  need  puzzle  her  no  more. 

Finally,  she  learned  that  she  was  the  crowning  intelligence  in  the  vast 
progression;  that  she  would  ultimately  become  part  of  Deity.  "The  long 
ascending  line,  from  dead  matter  to  man,  had  been  a  progress  Godwards,  and 
the  next  advance  would  unite  creation  and  Creator  in  one  person."     With  all 


AUGUSTA    J.   EVANS.  343 

her  aspirations,  she  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  future  as  was  here  pro- 
mised her.  To-night  she  was  closely  following  that  most  anomalous  of  all 
guides,  "Herr  Teufelsdrockh."  Urged  on  by  the  same  "unrest,"  she  was 
stumbling  along  dim,  devious  paths,  while  from  every  side  whispers  came  to 
her:  "Nature  is  one:  she  is  your  mother,  and  divine:  she  is  God!  The 
'living  garment  of  God.'  "  Through  the  "  everlasting  No,"  and  the  "  ever- 
lasting Yea,"  she  groped  her  way,  darkly,  tremblingly,  waiting  for  the  day- 
star  of  Truth  to  dawn  ;  but  at  last,  when  she  fancied  she  saw  the  first  rays 
silvering  the  night,  and  looked  up  hopefully,  it  proved  one  of  many  ignes- 
fatui,  which  had  flashed  across  her  path,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  Goethe,  up- 
lifted as  the  prophet  of  the  genuine  religion.  The  book  fell  from  her  nerveless 
fingers;  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  groaned.  It  was  all  "confusion  worse 
confounded."  She  could  not  for  her  life  have  told  what  she  believed,  much 
less  what  she  did  not  believe.  The  landmarks  of  earlier  years  were  swept 
away ;  the  beacon  light  of  Calvary  had  sunk  below  her  horizon.  A  howling 
chaos  seemed  about  to  ingulf  her.  At  that  moment  she  would  gladly  have 
sought  assistance  from  her  guardian ;  but  how  could  she  approach  him  after 
their  last  interview  ?  The  friendly  face  and  cordial  kindness  of  Dr.  Asbury 
flashed  upon  her  memory,  and  she  resolved  to  confide  her  doubts  and  diffi- 
culties to  him,  hoping  to  obtain,  from  his  clear  and  matured  judgment,  some 
clew  which  might  enable  her  to  emerge  from  the  labyrinth  that  involved  her. 
She  knelt  and  tried  to  pray.  To  what  did  she,  on  bended  knees,  send  up 
passionate  supplications  ?  To  nature?  to  heroes?  These  were  the  new 
deities.  She  could  not  pray ;  all  grew  dark  ;  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
throbbing  brain,  striving  to  clear  away  tin-  mists.  "  Sartor  "  had  effectually 
blindfolded  her,  and  she  threw  herself  down  to  sleep  with  a  shivering  dread 
as  of  a  young  child  separated  from  its  mother,  and  wailing  in  some  starless 
desert. 

CORNELIA  GRAHAM'S  DEATH. 

One  week  later,  as  Beulah  was  spending  her  Sabbath  evening  in  her  own 
apartment,  she  was  summoned  to  see  her  friend  for  the  last  time.  It  was 
twilight  when  she  reached  Mr.  Graham's  house,  and  glided  noiselessly  up 
the  thickly-carpeted  stairway.  The  bells  were  all  muffled,  and  a  solemn 
stillness  reigned  over  the  mansion.  She  left  her  bonnet  and  shawl  in  tin- 
hall,  and  softly  entered  the  chamber  unannounced.  Unable  to  breathe  in  a 
horizontal  position,  Cornelia  was  bolstered  up  in  her  easy-chair.     Her  mother 


344  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

sat  near  her,  with  her  face  hid  on  her  husband's  bosom.  Dr.  Ilartwell 
leaned  against  the  mantel,  and  Eugene  stood  on  the  hearth  opposite  him, 
with  his  head  bowed  down  on  his  hands.  Cornelia  drew  her  breath  in  quick 
gasps,  and  cold  drops  glistened  on  her  pallid  face.  Her  sunken  eyes  wan- 
dered over  the  group,  and  when  Beulah  drew  near  she  extended  her  hands 
eagerly,  while  a  shadowy  smile  passed  swiftly  over  her  sharpened  features. 

"Beulah,  come  close  to  me — close."  She  grasped  her  hands  tightly,  and 
Beulah  knelt  at  the  side  of  her  chair. 

"  Beulah,  in  a  little  while  I  shall  be  at  rest.  You  will  rejoice  to  see  me 
free  from  pain,  won't  you  ?  I  have  suffered  for  so  many  months  and  years. 
But  death  is  about  to  release  me  forever.  Beulah,  is  it  forever  ? — is  it  for- 
ever? Am  I  going  down  into  an  eternal  sleep,  on  a  marble  couch,  where 
grass  and  flowers  will  wave  over  me,  and  the  sun  shine  down  on  me  ?  Yes, 
it  must  be  so.  Who  has  ever  waked  from  this  last  dreamless  slumber  ?  Abel 
was  the  first  to  fall  asleep,  and  since  then,  who  lias  wakened  ?  No  one. 
Earth  is  full  of  pale  sleepers,  and  I  am  soon  to  join  the  silent  band." 

There  was  a  flickering  light  in  her  eyes,  like  the  flame  of  a  candle  low  in 
its  socket,  and  her  panting  breath  was  painful  to  listen  to. 

"  Cornelia,  they  say  Jesus  of  Nazareth  slept,  and  woke  again ;  if  so,  you 
will  " 

"  Ila,  but  you  don't  believe  that,  Beulah.  They  say — they  say  !  Yes, 
but  I  never  believed  them  before,  and  I  don't  want  to  believe  them  now.  T 
will  not  believe  it.  It  is  too  late  to  tell  me  that  now.  Beulah,  I  shall  know 
very  soon ;  the  veil  of  mystery  is  being  lifted.  Oh,  Beulah,  I  am  glad  I  am 
going ;  glad  I  shall  soon  have  no  more  sorrow  and  pain  ;  but  it  is  all  dark, 
dark !  You  know  what  I  mean.  Don't  live  as  I  have,  believing  nothing. 
No  matter  what  your  creed  may  be,  hold  fast,  have  firm  faith  in  it.  It  is 
because  I  believe  in  nothing,  that  I  am  so  clouded  now.  Oh,  it  is  such  a 
dark,  dark,  lonely  way  !  If  I  had  a  friend  to  go  with  me,  I  should  not  shrink 
back,  but  oh,  Beulah,  I  am  so  solitary  !  It  seems  to  me  I  am  going  out  into 
a  great  starless  midnight."  She  shivered,  and  her  cold  fingers  clutched 
Beulah's  convulsively. 

"Calm,  yourself,  Cornelia.  If  Christianity  is  true,  God  will  see  that  you 
were  honest  in  your  skepticism,  and  judge  you  leniently.  If  not,  then  death 
is  annihilation,  and  you  have  nothing  to  dread ;  you  will  sink  into  quiet 
oblivion  of  all  your  griefs." 

"  Annihilation !  then  I  shall  see  you  all  no  more !  Oh,  why  was  I  ever 
created,  to  love  others,  and  then  be  torn  away  forever,  and  go  back  to  sense- 


AUGUSTA    J.   EVANS. 


345 


less  dust  ?  I  never  have  been  happy  ;  I  have  always  had  aspirations  after 
purer,  higher  enjoyments  than  earth  could  afford  me,  and  must  they  be  lost 
in  dead  clay?  Oh,  Beulah,  can  you  give  me  no  comfort  but  this?  Is  this 
the  sum  of  all  your  study,  as  well  as  mine  ?  Ah,  it  is  vain,  useless ;  man  can 
find  out  nothing.  We  are  all  blind ;  groping  our  way  through  mysterious 
paths,  and  now  I  am  going  into  the  last — the  great  mystery!" 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  bitter  smile,  and  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut 
out  some  hideous  spectre.  Dr.  Hartwell  gave  her  a  spoonful  of  some  power- 
ful medicine,  and  stood  watching  her  face,  distorted  by  the  difficulty  of 
breathing.  A  long  silence  ensued,  broken  only  by  the  sobs  of  the  parents. 
Cornelia  leaned  back,  with  closed  eyes,  and  now  and  then  her  lips  moved, 
but  nothing  intelligible  escaped  them.  It  was  surprising  how  she  seemed  to 
rally  sometimes,  and  breathe  with  perfect  ease ;  then  the  paroxysms  would 
come  on  more  violent  than  ever.  Beulah  knelt  on  the  floor,  with  her  fore- 
head resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  her  hands  still  grasped  in  the  firm 
hold  of  the  dying  girl.  Time  seemed  to  stand  still,  to  watch  the  issue,  for 
moments  were  long  as  hours  to  the  few  friends  of  the  sufferer.  Beulah  felt 
as  if  her  heart  were  leaden,  and  a  band  of  burning  iron  seemed  drawn  about 
her  brow.  Was  this  painful  parting  to  be  indeed  eternal?  Was  there  no 
future  home  for  the  dead  of  this  world  ?  Should  the  bands  of  love  and 
friendship,  thus  rudely  severed,  be  renewed  no  more  ?  Was  there  no  land 
where  the  broken  links  might  be  gathered  up  again  ?  What  did  philosophy 
say  of  these  grim  hours  of  struggle  and  separation?  Nothing — absolutely 
nothing!  Was  she  to  see  her  sister  no  more?  Was  a  moldering  mass  of 
dust  all  that  remained  of  the  darling  dead — the  beautiful  angel,  Lilly,  whom 
she  had  so  idolized  ?  Oh !  was  life,  then,  a  great  mockery,  and  the  soul, 
with  its  noble  aims  and  impulses,  but  a  delicate  machine  of  matter?  Her 
brain  was  in  a  wild,  maddening  whirl ;  she  could  not  weep  ;  her  eyes  were 
dry  and  burning.     Cornelia  moved  an  instant,  and  murmured,  audibly : 

"  '  For  here  we  have  no  continuing  city,  but  seek  one  to  come.'  Ah  ! 
what  is  its  name?  that  'continuing  city!'  Necropolis?"  Again  she 
remained,  for  some  time,  speechless. 

Dr.  Ilartwell  softly  wiped  away  the  glistening  drops  on  her  brow,  and 
opening  her  eyes,  she  looked  up  at  him  intently.  It  was  an  imploring 
gaze,  which  mutely  said,  "Can't  you  help  me?"  He  leaned  over,  and 
answered  it,  sadly  enough  : 

"Courage,  Cornelia!  It  will  very  soon  be  over  now.  The  worst  is  past, 
my  friend." 

"  Yes,  I  know.     There  is  a  chill  creeping  over  me.     Where  is  Eugene?" 


346  WOMEX    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

He  came  and  stood  near  her ;  his  face  full  of  anguish,  which  could  not 
vent  itself  in  tears.  Her  features  became  convulsed  as  she  looked  at  him  ;  a 
wailing  cry  broke  from  her  lips,  and  extending  her  arms  toward  him,  she 
said,  sobbingly : 

"  Shall  I  see  you  no  more — no  more  ?  Oh,  Eugene,  my  brother,  my  pride, 
my  dearest  hope  !  whom  I  have  loved  better  than  my  own  life,  are  we  now 
parted  forever — forever!" 

He  laid  her  head  on  his  bosom,  and  endeavored  to  soothe  her ;  but  cling- 
ing to  him,  she  said,  huskily  : 

"Eugene,  with  my  last  breath  I  implore  yon,  forsake  your  intemperate 
companions.  Shim  them  and  their  haunts.  Let  me  die,  feeling  that  at  least 
my  dying  prayer  will  save  you !  Oh,  when  I  am  gone — when  I  am  silent  in 
the  graveyard,  remember  how  the  thought  of  your  intemperance  tortured 
me  !  Remember  how  I  remonstrated,  and  entreated  you  not  to  ruin  your- 
self! Remember  that  I  loved  you  above  everything  on  earth;  and  that,  in 
my  last  hour,  I  prayed  you  to  save  yourself!  Oh,  Eugene,  for  my  sake! 
for  my  sake!   quit  the  wine  cup,  and  leave  drunkenness  for  others  more 

degraded! Promise  me! Where  are  you? Oh,  it  is  all  cold  and 

dark  ! 1  can't  see  you ! Eugene,  promise,  promise  ! Eugene  !" 

Her  eyes  were  riveted  on  his,  and  her  lips  moved  for  some  seconds ;  then 
the  clasping  arms  gradually  relaxed  ;  the  gasps  ceased.  Eugene  felt  a  long 
shudder  creep  over  the  limbs,  a.  deep,  heavy  sigh  passed  her  lips,  and  Corne- 
lia Graham's  soul  was  with  its  God. 

Ah !  after  twenty-three  years  of  hope  and  fear,  struggling  and  question- 
ing, what  an  exit !  Eugene  lifted  the  attenuated  form,  and  placed  it  on  the 
bed ;  then  threwT  himself  into  her  vacant  chair,  and  sobbed  like  a  broken- 
hearted child.  Mr.  Graham  took  his  wife  from  the  room;  and  after  some 
moments,  Dr.  Hartwell  touched  the  kneeling  figure,  with  the  face  still 
pressed  against  the  chair  Eugene  now  occupied. 

"  Come,  Beulah,  she  will  want  you  no  more." 

She  lifted  a  countenance  so  full  of  woe,  that  as  he  looked  at  her,  the 
moisture  gathered  in  his  eyes,  and  he  put  his  hand  tenderly  on  her  head, 
saying : 

"  Come  with  me,  Beulah." 

"  And  this  is  death.     Oh,  my  God,  save  me  from  such  a  death  !" 

She  clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  shivered;  then  rising  from  her 
kneeling  posture,  threw  herself  cm  a  couch,  and  buried  her  face  in  its  cush- 
ions.    That  long  night  of  self-communion  was  never  forgotten. 


AUGUSTA    J.   EVANS.  347 

The  day  of  the  funeral  was  cold,  dark  and  dismal.  A  January  wind 
howled  through  the  streets,  and  occasional  drizzling  showers  enhanced  the 
gloom.  The  parlors  and  sitting-room  were  draped,  and  on  the  marble  slab 
of  one  of  the  tables  stood  the  coffin,  covered  with  a  velvet  pall.  Once 
before,  Beulah  had  entered  a  room  similarly  shrouded ;  and  it  seemed  but 
yesterday  that  she  stood  beside  Lilly's  rigid  form.  She  went  in  alone,  and 
waited  some  moments  near  the  coffin,  striving  to  calm  the  wild  tumult  of 
conflicting  sorrows  in  her  oppressed  heart ;  then  lifted  the  cover,  and  looked 
on  the  sleeper.  Wan,  waxen  and  silent.  No  longer  the  fitful  sleep  of  dis- 
ease, nor  the  refreshing  slumber  of  health,  but  the  still  iciness  of  ruthless 
death.  The  black  locks  were  curled  around  the  forehead,  and  the  beautiful 
hands  folded  peacefully  over  the  heart  that  should  throb  no  more  with  the 
anguish  of  earth.  Death  had  smoothed  the  brow,  and  put  the  trembling 
mouth  at  rest,  and  every  feature  was  in  repose.  In  life  she  had  never  looked 
so  placidly  beautiful. 

''What  availed  all  her  inquiries,  and  longings,  and  defiant  cries?  She 
died,  no  nearer  the  truth  than  when  she  began.  She  died  without  hope, 
and  without  knowledge.  Only  death  could  unseal  the  mystery,"  thought 
Beulah,  as  she  looked  at  the  marble  face,  and  recalled  the  bitterness  of 
its  life-long  expression.  Persons  began  to  assemble;  gradually,  the  rooms 
filled.  Beulah  bent  down,  and  kissed  the  cold  lips  for  the  last  time,  and 
lowering  her  veil,  retired  to  a  dim  corner.  She  was  very  miserable,  but 
her  eyes  were  tearless,  and  she  sat,  she  knew  not  how  long,  unconscious 
of  what  passed  around  her.  She  heard  the  stifled  sobs  of  the  bereaved 
parents,  as  in  a  painful  dream ;  and  when  the  solemn  silence  was  broken, 
she  started,  and  saw  a  venerable  man,  a  stranger,  standing  at  the  head 
of  the  coffin;  and  these  words  fell  upon  her  ears  like  a  message  from 
another  world. 

"I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,"  saith  the  Lord;  "and  he  that 
believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live;  and  whosoever 
liveth  and  believeth  in  me  shall  never  die!" 

Cornelia  had  not  believed;  was  she  utterly  lost?  Beulah  asked  her- 
self this  question,  and  shrank  from  the  answer.  She  did  not  believe : 
would  she  die  as  Cornelia  died,  without  comfort?  Was  there  but  one 
salvation?  When  the  coffin  was  borne  out,  and  the  procession  formed, 
she  went  on  mechanically,  and  found  herself  seated  in  a  carriage  with 
Mrs.  Asbtiry  and  her  two  daughters.  She  sank  back  in  one  corner,  and 
the    long   line    of   carriages,  extending    for   many    squares,    slowly  wound 


348  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

through  the  streets.  The  wind  wailed  and  sobbed,  as  if  in  sympathy,  and 
the  rain  drizzled  against  the  window-glass.  When  the  procession  reached 
the  cemetery,  it  was  too  wet  to  think  of  leaving  the  carriages,  but  Beulah 
could  see  the  coffin  borne  from  the  hearse,  and  heard  the  subdued  voice 
of  the  minister ;  and  when  the  shrouded  form  of  the  only  child  was  low- 
ered into  its  final  resting-place,  she  groaned,  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands.  "Should  they  meet  no  more?"  Hitherto  Mrs.  Asbury  had  for- 
borne to  address  her,  but  now  she  passed  her  arm  round  the  shuddering 
form,  and  said,  gently : 

"  My  dear  Beulah,  do  not  look  so  hopelessly  wretched.  In  the  midst 
of  life,  we  are  in  death;  but  God  has  given  a  promise  to  cheer  us  all  in 
sad  scenes  like  this.  St.  John  was  told  to  write,  'From  henceforth, 
blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord,  for  they  rest  from  their 
labors.'  " 

'•  And  do  you  think  she  is  lost  forever,  because  she  did  not  believe  ?  Do 
you?     Can  you?"  cried  Beulah,  vehemently. 

"  Beulah,  she  had  the  Bible,  which  promises  eternal  life.  If  she  entirely 
rejected  it,  she  did  so  voluntarily  and  deliberately ;  but  only  God  knows  the 
heart — only  her  Maker  can  judge  her.  I  trust  that  even  in  the  last  hour,  the 
mists  rolled  from  her  mind." 

Beulah  knew  better,  but  said  nothing ;  it  was  enough  to  have  witnessed 
that  darkened  soul's  last  hour  on  earth.  As  the  carriage  stopped  at  her  door, 
Mrs.  Asbury  said  : 

"  My  dear  Beulah,  stay  witli  me  to-night.  I  think  I  can  help  you  to  find 
what  you  are  seeking  so  earnestly." 

Beulah  shrank  back,  and  answered: 

"No,  no.  No  one  can  help  me ;  I  must  help  myself.  Some  other  time  I 
will  come." 

The  rain  fell  heavily  as  she  reached  her  own  home,  and  she  went  to  her 
room  with  a  heaviness  of  heart  almost  unendurable.  She  sat  down  on  the 
rug  before  the  fire,  and  threw  her  arms  up  over  a  chair,  as  she  was  wont  to 
do  in  childhood,  and  as  she  remembered  that  the  winter  rain  now  beat  piti- 
lessly on  the  grave  of  one  who  had  never  known  privation,  nor  aught  of  grief 
that  wealth  could  shield  her  from,  she  moaned  bitterly.  What  lamp  had 
philosophy  hung  in  the  sable  chambers  of  the  tomb  ?  The  soul  was  impotent 
to  explain  its  origin — how,  then,  could  it  possibly  read  the  riddle  of  final 
destiny  ?  Psychologists  had  wrangled  for  ages  over  the  question  of  "  ideas." 
Were  infants  born  with  or  without  them  ?     Did  ideas  arise  or  develop  them- 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  349 

selves  independently  of  experience  ?  The  affirmation  or  denial  of  this  propo- 
sition alone  distinguished  the  numerous  schools,  which  had  so  long  wrestled 
with  psychology ;  and  if  this  were  insolvable,  how  could  human  intellect 
question  further  ?  Could  it  bridge  the  gulf  of  Death,  and  explore  the  shores 
of  Eternity  ? 


TRUTH  AT  LAST  TRIUMPHANT. 

She  had  long  before  rejected  a  "  revealed  code  "  as  unnecessary  ;  the  next 
step  was  to  decipher  nature's  symbols,  and  thus  grasp  God's  hidden  laws; 
but  here  the  old  trouble  arose  ;  how  far  was  "  individualism  "  allowable  and 
safe?  To  reconcile  the  theories  of  rationalism,  she  felt,  was  indeed  a  hercu- 
lean task,  and  she  groped  on  in  deeper  night.  Now  and  then,  her  horizon 
was  bestarred,  and,  in  her  delight,  she  shouted  Eureka !  But  when  the 
telescope  of  her  infallible  reason  was  brought  to  bear  upon  the  coldly  glitter- 
ing points,  they  flickered  and  went  out.  More  than  once,  a  flaming  comet, 
of  German  manufacture,  trailed  in  glory  athwart  her  dazzled  vision  ;  but  close 
observation  resolved  the  gilded  nebula,  and  the  nucleus  mocked  her.  Doubt 
engendered  doubt ;  the  death  of  one  difficulty  was  the  instant  birth  of  another. 
"Wave  after  wave  of  skepticism  surged  over  her  soul,  until  the  image  of  a 
great  personal  God  was  swept  from  its  altar.  But  atheism  never  yet 
usurped  the  sovereignty  of  the  human  mind;  in  all  ages,  moldering  vestiges 
of  protean  deism  confront  the  giant  spectre,  and  every  nation  under  heaven 
has  reared  its  fane  to  the  "unknown  God."  Beulah  had  striven  to 
enthrone  in  her  desecrated  soul,  the  huge,  dim,  shapeless  phantom  of  pan- 
theism, and  had  turned  eagerly  to  the  system  of  Spinoza.  The  heroic  gran- 
deur of  the  man's  life  and  character  had  strangely  fascinated  her ;  but  now 
that  idol  of  a  "  substance,  whose  two  infinite  attributes  were  extension  and 
thought,"  mocked  her;  and  she  hurled  it  from  its  pedestal,  and  looked  back 
wistfully  to  the  pure  faith  of  her  childhood.  A  Godless  world ;  a  Godless 
woman.  She  took  up  the  lamp,  and  retired  to  her  own  room.  On  all  sides 
books  greeted  her;  here  was  the  varied  lore  of  dead  centuries;  here  she  had 
held  communion  with  the  great  souls  entombed  in  these  dusty  pages.  Here, 
wrestling  alone  with  those  grim  puzzles,  she  had  read  out  the  vexed  and  vex- 
ing questions,  in  this  debating  club  of  the  moldering  dead,  and  endeavored  to 
make  them  solve  them.  These  well-worn  volumes,  with  close  "  marginalias," 
echoed  her  inquiries,  but  answered  them  not  to  her  satisfaction.  Was  her 
lite  to  be  thus  passed  in  feverish  toil,  and  ended  as  by  a  leap  out  into  a  black 


350  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

shoreless  abyss  ?  Like  a  spent  child,  she  threw  her  arms  cm  the  mantel-piece, 
and  wept  uncontrollably,  murmuring  : 

"  Oh,  better  die  now,  than  live  in  perpetual  strugglings  !  What  is  life 
worth  without  peace  of  mind,  without  hope;  and  what  hope  have  I? 
I  >iamonded  webs  of  sophistry  can  no  longer  entangle  ;  like  Noah's  dove,  my 
soul  has  fluttered  among  them,  striving  in  vain  for  a  sure  hold  to  perch  upon  ; 
but,  unlike  it,  I  have  no  ark  to  flee  to.  Weary  and  almost  hopeless,  I  would 
lain  believe  that  this  world  is  indeed  as  a  deluge,  and  in  it  there  is  no  ark  of 
refuge  but  the  Bible.  It  is  true,  I  did  not  see  this  soul's  ark  constructed ;  I 
know  nothing  of  the  machinery  employed;  and,  no  more  than  Noah's  dove, 
can  I  explore  and  fully  understand  its  secret  chambers;  yet,  all  untutored,  the 
exhausted  bird  sought  safety  in  the  incomprehensible,  and  was  saved.  As  to 
the  mysteries  of  revelation  and  inspiration,  why,  I  meet  mysteries,  turn 
which  way  I  will.  Man,  earth,  time,  eternity,  God,  are  all  inscrutable  mys- 
teries. My  own  soul  is  a  mystery  even  unto  myself,  and  so  long  as  I  am 
impotent  to  fathom  its  depths,  how  shall  I  hope  to  unfold  the  secrets  of  the 
universe  ?" 

She  had  rejected  Christian  theism,  because  she  could  not  understand  how 
God  had  created  the  universe  out  of  nothing.  True,  "with  God  all  things 
are  possible,"  but  she  could  not  understand  this  creation  out  of  nothing,  and 
therefore  would  not  believe  it.  Yet  (oh,  inconsistency  of  human  reasoning  I) 
she  had  believed  that  the  universe  created  laws :  that  matter  gradually 
created  mind.  This  was  the  inevitable  result  of  pantheism,  for  according  to 
geology,  there  was  a  primeval  period,  when  neither  vegetable  nor  animal 
life  existed;  when  the  earth  was  a  huge  mass  of  inorganic  matter.  Of  two 
incomprehensibilities,  which  was  the  most  plausible  ?  To-night  the  question 
recurred  to  her  mind  with  irresistible  force,  and  as  her  eyes  wandered  over 
the  volumes  she  had  so  long  consulted,  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Oh,  philosophy  !  thou  hast  mocked  my  hungry  soul ;  thy  gilded  fruits 
have  crumbled  to  ashes  in  my  grasp.  In  lieu  of  the  holy  faith  of  my  girl- 
hood, thou  hast  given  me  but  dim,  doubtful  conjecture,  cold,  metaphysical 
abstractions,  intangible  shadows,  that  flit  along  my  path,  and  lure  me  on  to 
deeper  morasses.  Oh,  what  is  the  shadow  of  death,  in  comparison  with  the 
starless  night  which  has  fallen  upon  me,  even  in  the  morning  of  my  life  !  My 
God,  save  me !     Give  me  light :  of  myself  I  can  know  nothing !" 

Her  proud  intellect  was  humbled,  and  falling  on  her  knees,  for  the  first 
time  in  many  months,  a  sobbing  prayer  went  up  to  the  throne  of  the  living 
God ;  while  the  vast  clockwork  of  stars  looked  in  on  a  pale  brow  and  lips, 
where  heavy  drops  of  moisture  glistened. 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  351 


A  "WIFE'S  DIVINE  MINISTRY. 

Reader,  marriage  is  not  the  end  of  life;  it  is  but  the  beginning  of  a  new 
course  of  duties ;  but  I  cannot  now  follow  Beulah.  Henceforth  her  history  is 
bound  U]>  with  another's.  To  save  her  husband  from  his  unbelief,  is  the 
labor  of  future  years.  She  had  learned  to  suffer,  and  to  bear  patiently  ; 
and,  though  her  path  looks  sunny,  and  her  heart  throbs  with  happy 
hopes,  this  one  shadow  lurks  over  her  home,  and  dims  her  joys.  "Weeks 
and  months  glided  swiftly  on.  Dr.  Hartwell's  face  lost  its  stern  rigidity, 
and  his  smile  became  constantly  genial.  Ilis  wife  was  his  idol;  day  by 
day,  his  love  for  her  seemed  more  completely  to  revolutionize  his  nature. 
His  cynicism  melted  insensibly  away ;  his  lips  forgot  their  iron  compres- 
sion; now  and  then,  his  long-forgotten  laugh  rang  through  the  house. 
Beulah  was  conscious  of  the  power  she  wielded,  and  trembled  lest  she 
failed  to  employ  it  properly.  One  Sabbath  afternoon,  she  sat  in  her  room, 
with  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  absorbed  in  earnest  thought.  Her  little  Bible 
lay  on  her  lap,  and  she  was  pondering  the  text  she  had  heard  that  morn- 
ing. Charon  came  and  nestled  his  huge  head  against  her.  Presently  she 
heard  the  quick  tramp  of  hoofs  and  whir  of  wheels;  and  soon  after,  her 
husband  entered  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  he,  passing  his  hand  over  her  head, 
carelessly. 

"  Thinking  of  my  life — of  the  bygone  years  of  struggle." 

"They  are  past,  and  can  trouble  you  no  more.  'Let  the  dead  past  bury 
its  dead!"  " 

"  No,  my  past  can  never  die.  I  ponder  it  often,  and  it  does  me  good; 
strengthens  me,  by  keeping  me  humble.  I  was  just  thinking  of  the  dreary, 
desolate  days  and  nights  I  passed,  searching  for  a  true  philosophy,  and  going 
farther  astray  witli  every  effort.  I  was  so  proud  of  my  intellect ;  put  so 
much  faith  in  my  own  powers;  it  was  no  wonder  I  was  so  benighted." 

"  Where  is  your  old  worship  of  genius?"  asked  her  husband,  watching  her 
curiously. 

"  I  have  not  lost  it  all.  I  hope  I  never  shall.  Human  genius  has  accom- 
plished a  vast  deal  of  man's  temporal  existence.  The  physical  sciences  have 
been  wheeled  forward  in  the  march  of  mind,  and  man's  earthly  path  gemmed 
with  all  that  a  merely  sensual  nature  could  desire.  But  looking  aside  from 
these  channels,  what  has  it  effected  for  philosophy,  that  great  burden,  which 


352  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH 

constantly  recalls  the  fabled  labors  of  Sisyphus  and  the  Danaides  ?  Since  the 
rising  of  Bethlehem's  star  in  the  cloudy  sky  of  polytheism,  what  has  human 
genius  discovered  of  God,  eternity,  destiny?  Metaphysicians  build  gorgeous 
cloud  palaces,  but  the  soul  cannot  dwell  in  their  cold,  misty  atmosphere. 
Antiquarians  wrangle  and  write ;  Egypt's  moldering  monuments  are  raked 
from  their  desert  graves,  and  made  the  theme  of  scientific  debate ;  but  has 
all  this  learned  disputation  contributed  one  iota  to  clear  the  thorny  way  of 
strict  morality  ?  Put  the  Bible  out  of  sight,  and  how  much  will  human 
intellect  discover  concerning  our  origin — our  ultimate  destiny?  In  the 
morning  of  time,  sages  handled  these  vital  questions,  and  died,  not  one  step 
nearer  the  truth  than  when  they  began.  Now,  our  philosophers  struggle, 
earnestly  and  honestly,  to  make  plain  the  same  inscrutable  mysteries.  Yes, 
blot  out  the  record  of  Moses,  and  we  would  grope  in  starless  night ;  for  not- 
withstanding the  many  priceless  blessings  it  has  discovered  for  man,  the  torch 
of  science  will  never  pierce  and  illumine  the  recesses  over  which  Almighty 
God  has  hung  his  veil.  Here  we  see,  indeed,  as  '  through  a  glass,  darkly.' 
Yet  I  believe  the  day  is  already  dawning,  when  scientific  data  will  not  only 
cease  to  be  antagonistic  to  scriptural  accounts,  but  will  deepen  the  impress 
of  Divinity  on  the  pages  of  holy  writ  ;  when  •  the  torch  shall  be  taken  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  infidel,  and  set  to  burn  in  the  temple  of  the  living  God ; 
when  Science  and  Religion  shall  link  hands.  I  revere  the  lonely  thinkers 
to  whom  the  world  is  indebted  for  its  great  inventions.  I  honor  the  tireless 
laborers  who  toil  in  laboratories;  who  sweep  midnight  skies  in  search  of  new 
worlds  ;  who  upheave  primeval  rocks,  hunting  for  footsteps  of  Deity  ;  and  I 
believe  that  every  scientific  fact  will  ultimately  prove  but  another  lamp, 
planted  along  the  path  which  leads  to  the  knowledge  of  Jehovah  !  Ah !  it  is 
indeed  peculiarly  the  duty  of  Christians,  '  to  watch  with  reverence  and  joy 
the  unveiling  of  the  august  brow  of  Nature,  by  the  hand  of  Science  ;  and  to 
be  ready  to  call  mankind  to  a  worship  ever  new  !'  Human  thought  subserves 
many  useful,  nay,  noble  ends ;  the  Creator  gave  it,  as  a  powerful  instrument 
to  improve  man's  temporal  condition  ;  but  oh,  sir,  I  speak  of  what  I  know, 
when  I  say  :  alas,  for  that  soul  who  forsakes  the  divine  ark,  and  embarks  on 
the  gilded  toys  of  man's  invention,  hoping  to  breast  the  billows  of  life,  and  be 
anchored  safely  in  the  harbor  of  eternal  rest  !  The  heathens,  '  having  no  law, 
are  a  law  unto  themselves .'  but  to  such  as  deliberately  reject  the  given  light, 
only  bitter  darkness  remains.  I  know  it;  for  I,  too,  once  groped,  wailing  for 
help." 

"Your  religion  is  full  of  mystery.''  said  her  husband,  gravely. 


AUGUSTA    J.   EVANS.  353 

"  Yes,  of  divine  mystery.  Truly,  '  a  God  comprehended  is  no  God  at  all !' 
Christianity  is  clear,  as  to  rules  of  life  and  duty.  There  is  no  mystery  left 
ahout  the  directions  to  man ;  yet  there  is  a  divine  mystery  infolding  it, 
which  tells  of  its  divine  origin,  and  promises  a  fuller  revelation  when  man  is 
fitted  to  receive  it.  If  it  were  not  so,  we  would  call  it  man's  invention. 
You  turn  from  Revelation,  because  it  contains  some  things  you  cannot  com- 
prehend ;  yet  you  plunge  into  deeper,  darker  mystery,  when  you  embrace  the 
theory  of  an  eternal,  self-existing  universe,  having  no  intelligent  creator,  yet 
constantly  creating  intelligent  beings.  Sir,  can  you  understand  how  matter 
creates  mind  ?" 

She  had  laid  her  Bible  on  his  knee ;  her  folded  hands  rested  upon  it,  and 
her  grey  eyes,  clear  and  earnest,  looked  up  reverently  into  her  husband's 
noble  face.  His  soft  hands  wandered  over  her  head,  and  he  seemed  ponder- 
iug  her  words. 

May  God  aid  the  wife  in  her  holy  work  of  love. 


23 


JANE    T.    H.    CROSS. 

Commend  us  to  the  true  heart  that  glows  in  a  true  woman's 
letter,  though  it  be  in  a  strange  hand,  and  address  us  in  formal 
phrase,  "  dear  madam,"  and  prove,  after  all,  only  a  letter  of 
biographical  data.  There  is  a  clear,  resonant  ring  in  it — a  per- 
tinent simplicity  —  a  dignity — a  reticence  —  an  unconscious 
pathos  as  the  pen  glides  here  and  there  over  a  life-point  with  a 
nerve  in  it.  We  are  put  at  once  in  full  sympathy  with  the 
woman  and  writer.  Such  a  letter  we  have  received  from  the 
subject  of  this  sketch.     She  says,  modestly  : 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  further  your  object  in  any  way  that  I 
can.  I  confess,  however,  with  no  affected  humility,  that  I  do 
not  consider  my  writings  of  sufficient  importance,  or  popularity, 
to  entitle  me  to  take  rank  among  literary  people.  My  success 
has  been,  chiefly — where,  indeed,  the  heart  ought  most  to  covet 
it — among  children  and  sorrowful  women  ;  for  it  is  a  pleasant 
task  to  water  violets  and  lilies,  but  not  one  in  which  the  busy, 
babbling,  showy  world  feels  much  concern." 

"  Children  and  sorrowful  women  !"  as  if  to  appeal  success- 
fully to  these  were  not  a  popularity  of  the  purest  and  rarest 
type.  But  the  little  books  which  Mrs.  Cross  has  given  to  the 
world  are-not  to  be  limited  even  to  this  desirable  sphere.  They 
are  the  evident  product  of  intellect  and  culture,  full  of  vigor,  as 
well  as  the  most  delicate  grace  and  perception.  Her  portraiture 
shows  the  graphic  and  true  lines  of  a  master,  and  her  works  are 

354 


JANE    T.   H.   CROSS.  355 

all  touched  with  the  issues  of  a  refined,  womanly,  and  religious 
spirit. 

The  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  Cross  was  Jane  Tandy  Chinn. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  Judge  Chinn,  of  Harrodsburg,  Kentucky, 
in  which  place  she  was  born  in  1S17.  She  was  educated  at 
Shelbyville,  Kentucky,  at  the  boarding-school  of  Mrs.  Tevis— 
an  establishment  which  has  been  a  blessing  to  all  the  Missis- 
sippi valley. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  she  married  James  P.  Hardin,  son 
of  Hon.  Ben  Hardin,  of  Kentucky.  In  1841,  she  accompanied 
her  husband  to  Cuba  for  his  health  ;  but  in  the  autumn  of  1842, 
his  prospects  for  a  brilliant  career  were  cut  off  by  death.  Thus, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  our  author  was  left  a  widow  with 
three  children. 

In  1S4S,  she  was  married,  a  second  time,  to  Rev.  Dr.  Cross, 
of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  South.  "  Since  that  time," 
she  says,  "  my  life  has  been  as  roving  as  that  of  an  Arab." 
The  two  years  following  this  union  were  spent  in  Kentucky. 
Dr.  Cross  was  then  stationed  two  years  at  Nashville,  Tennessee, 
five  months  at  Huntsville,  Alabama,  and  four  years  at  Charles- 
ton, South  CaroUna.  They  then  travelled  in  Europe  a  year, 
enjoying  all  that  came  in  their  way  with  a  zest  and  entireness 
which  are  most  happily  set  forth  in  a  volume  recently  given  to 
the  world  by  Dr.  Cross.  Some  extracts  from  this  work,  which 
have  come  under  our  notice,  would  seem  to  prove  the  author  a 
man  of  fine  descriptive  and  poetic  powers,  and  every  way 
worthy  of  his  accomplished  wife. 

In  1858,  they  returned  to  South  Carolina,  and  were  engaged 
in  teaching,  at  Spartanburg,  for  eighteen  months.  In  1859, 
they  removed  to  San  Antonio,  Texas,  where  they  now  reside. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  a  life  like  this  must  abound  in  varied 
and  interesting  incident,  but  Mrs.  Cross,  with  an  off-hand, 
modest  grace,  thus  waives  the  detail : 


356  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  I  am  aware  that  I  have  made  the  recital  of  facts  as  bare  as 
possible — not  but  that  '  thereby  hangs  a  tale  ;'  yet  I  remember 
that  when  Mazeppa  assures  Charles  XII.  that  his  story  is  '  a 
long  and  sad  one,'  the  king  begs  him  not  to  recite  it." 

Mrs.  Cross  has  been,  for  some  years,  an  occasional  contri- 
butor of  prose  and  poetry  to  the  religious  journals  of  the  South. 
She  has  written  a  series  of  stories  for  children,  which  were  col- 
lected and  edited  by  Dr.  Summers,  and  published  in  four  small 
volumes,  called,  most  appropriately,  "  Heart  Blossoms,"  "  Way- 
side Flowerets,"  "  Bible  Gleanings,"  and  "  Drift-wood." 

During  her  tour  through  Europe,  she  corresponded  in  a 
pleasant,  descriptive  vein,  with  the  "  Christian  Advocate,"  and 
the  "  Courier,"  of  Charleston.  She  has  also  contributed  for 
years  to  the  "  Home  Circle,"  of  Nashville,  Tenn.  "  And  this," 
she  says,  "  is  the  head  and  front  of  my  offending." 


SCARLET  GERANIUMS. 

Some  days  seem  made  expressly  for  joy.  la  their  very  commencement, 
when  Aurora  lifts  the  rosy  curtains,  and  reveals  the  morning  chamber  of  the 
sun,  inlaid  with  pearl,  the  gracious  monarch  slips  to  the  threshold,  and 
gives  her  such  a  hearty  nod  of  approbation,  that  a  shower  of  light  falls  from 
his  curls  upon  the  awaking  earth.  The  earth  herself  is  clothed  in  green ; 
for,  like  the  milk-maid  in  the  fable,  that  color  "  becomes  her  best."  Still,  as 
the  royal  personage,  gathering  his  golden  robes  about  him,  advances  in  his 
walk  through  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  he  looks  down  smiling  to  our  little 
world,  and  it  smiles  back  to  him,  as  a  child  might  smile  into  the  face  of  its 
father. 

These  are  the  days  that  are  made  for  joy.  Then  care  goes  skulking  off 
into  dark  closets  and  corners ;  and  grief  wraps  itself  up  in  the  drawers  that 
contain  the  clothes  of  dead  people ;  and  despair  lies  on  the  highway,  fainting 
beneath  the  warm  rays,  and  being  suffocated  by  the  fragrance  of  flowers ; 
and  patient  sorrow  sits,  looking  like  one  of  those  beautiful  paintings  of  India- 
ink  that  are  touched  with  gold. 

It  was  just  such  a  day  as  this  that  I  sat  within  a  room,  and  gazed  at  the 


JANE    T.    H.    CROSS.  357 

gas  fixtures  in  the  centre,  and  at  the  white  glass  bell,  with  its  blue  rim  that 
hung  above,  a  crystal  morning-glory,  bringing  to  mind  the  green  fields  and 
flowery  hedges ;  and  then  I  looked  upon  a  gilt-framed  mirror  that  flashed 
above  the  marble  mantel-piece  ;  and  then  I  looked  at  the  embroidered  muslin 
curtain,  that  softened  the  light  as  it  came  through  the  window,  and  at  the 
blue  hangings  above.  And  when  I  had  tired  of  these,  my  eyes  rested  upon 
the  pure  white  marble  table  that  stood  before  me.  I  felt  that  it  was  very 
pleasant,  even  in  those  little  household  matters,  to  be  surrounded  by  beauti- 
ful objects;  and  that  it  would  be  a  very,  very  great  privation  if  all  those 
objects  were  shut  out  forever,  and  the  windows  of  the  soul  darkened. 

Milton  says,  after  he  became  blind,  "  God  chastises  me  with  two  rods, 
and  one  of  them  is  a  club."  It  must  be  hard  to  bear  this  blindness,  and 
deafness  is  but  little  inferior  to  it.  Just  imagine  every  sound  in  the  world 
to  cease  suddenly — the  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  hum  of  the  city,  the  carol- 
ling of  the  birds,  the  gurgling  of  the  brook,  the  melodious  moaning  of  the 
ocean,  the  voices  of  children  and  of  dear  friends !  It  makes  one  shudder, 
and  feel  as  if  he  were  drawing  his  shroud  around  him,  and  stepping  down 
into  his  grave. 

Such  thoughts  were  naturally  suggested  by  the  fact,  that  on  the  other 
side  of  the  marble  table  sat  a  dark-eyed,  pleasant-looking  gentleman, 
performing  operations  for  diseases  of  the  eyes  and  ears.  He  had  been 
thus  engaged  from  the  time  I  had  entered  the  room.  The  patient's  chair  was 
never  empty.  A  few  moments  sufficed  for  each;  but  the  place  was  no 
sooner  vacated  by  one,  than  it  was  occupied  by  another.  Perhaps  this 
day,  expressly  made  for  joy,  gave  them  hopes  of  a  happy  issue ;  for  still 
the  sun  kept  gazing  down  through  the  shaded  window,  smiling,  and  seem- 
ing to  say,  "  Now  something  good  is  going  to  happen." 

Presently  the  operator  made  a  signal,  and,  as  a  gentleman  approached 
the  chair,  he  remarked  :  "  This  gentleman  has  been  deaf  and  dumb  from 
his  birth."  He  then  commenced  using  his  little  glass  tubes,  mops,  air- 
pumps,  etc.,  as  quietly  and  composedly  as  if  he  were  merely  going  to 
shave  the  man.  After  a  few  moments,  he  said,  "  I  am  now  going  to  try 
if  he  can  hoar.  I  wish  you  to  observe  his  eye.  If  he  hears,  you  will 
perceive  it  by  the  expression  of  his  eyes."  He  then  took  a  small  India- 
rubber  bag,  with  a  brass  mouth-piece,  and,  putting  it  to  the  patient's  ear, 
made  a  noise  such  as  is  sometimes  made  by  a  child's  toy. 

And  now  I  am  disposed  to  lay  down  my  pen,  for  I  never  can  convey 
to  you  an  idea  of  the  face  that  presented  itself  before  us.      The  flash  of 


358  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

intelligence,  the  joy,  surprise,  and  inquiry  were  inimitable  and  indescri- 
bable. It  brought  to  my  mind  the  exclamation  of  N.  P.  Willis's  little 
girl  : 

"  Father,  dear  father,  God  has  made  a  star !" 

and  it  appeared  to  me  that  God  had  just  then  made  a  soul;  and  that  this 
soul,  still  glowing  with  the  light  of  heaven,  warm  from  the  hand  of  his 
Creator,  was  flashing  through  the  eyes,  and  playing  like  summer  lightning 
about  the  mouth.  At  every  repetition  of  the  noise,  the  face  beamed  anew. 
Every  countenance  in  the  room  threw  back  the  irradiating  joy.  Glad 
hands  were  clapped,  and  "  Is  it  not  beautiful  ?  Oh  !  is  it  not  beautiful  ?" 
was  repeated  again  and  again.  My  God !  let  me  henceforth  be  more  grate- 
ful for  this  delightful  sense  of  hearing.  Was  the  tone  of  that  poor  squeak- 
ing India-rubber  bag  such  entrancing  music  to  him  who  had  never  heard 
a  sound  before?  Then,  let  me  listen  to  the  music  world  around  me,  and 
let  the  various  notes  coming  from  all  objects  melt  into  a  blissful  melody  of 
praise  to  God ! 

And  that  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  heard !  My  mind  ran  forward 
to  the  time  when  the  dull  ear  of  death  shall  be  awakened  by  the  harmony  of 
heaven,  and  I  knew  the  sound  would  be  still  stranger  and  more  entrancing 
than  those  earthly  sounds  to  the  deaf  mute.  In  confirmation  of  this,  I  could 
but  think  of  poor  Cowper  dying  with  "  unutterable  despair  "  upon  his  lips, 
and  yet  with  a  face,  when  those  lips  had  grown  silent,  suddenly  beaming 
with  inexpressible  joy  and  surprise.  Yes,  truly  !  some  days  are  made  for 
joy.     May  such,  dear  reader,  be  your  day  of  death,  and  mine. 


LA  PETITE  FEE. 

When  I  was  hut  a  girl,  numbering  not  more  than  a  dozen  summers, 
I  was  taken  from  the  tender  surroundings  of  home,  and  sent  to  a  boarding- 
school.  There  I  was  an  utter  stranger.  Teachers  and  pupils  were  unknown 
to  me.  It  seemed  to  me  I  met  no  glance  of  sympathy.  The  place,  which 
has  since  become  the  warm  nest  of  my  affections,  appeared  to  me  then 
cold  and  strange. 

Shy  and  sensitive,  I  drew  off  from  the  girls  around  me,  and  wandered 
into  the  yard.  A  clothes-line  was  stretched  from  tree  to  tree.  I  caught  that 
with  my  hands,  and  leaning  my  head  against  it,  stood,  looking   wistfully 


JANE    T.   II.   CROSS.  359 

through  the  crevices  of  the  high  plunk  fence.  There  I  stood,  a  lone, 
awkward  little  stranger.  I  know  not  whether  I  thought  of  anything, 
except  that  I  knew  nohody.  Just  then,  a  meek-eyed  girl,  smaller  than 
myself,  with  very  soft  brown  hair,  approached  me.  A  few  kind  words 
came  bubbling  up  from  the  pure  fountain  of  the  heart,  and  ran  over  the 
ruby  brim  of  her  lips.  I  loved  her.  Her  soul  addressed  me,  and  from 
that  hour  we  were  no  longer  strangers. 

Many  bright  girls  have  entered  those  halls  of  learning — many  lovely 
and  accomplished  women  have  come  thence ;  but  none  brighter  or  lovelier 
than  my  little  friend  of  the  clothes-line.  Whatever  of  knowledge  was  set 
before  her,  was  seized  by  her  mind  with  delight.  She  was  the  wit  of 
our  room;  and  many  a  contest  have  I  had  with  her,  and  many  a  time 
been  foiled,  while  our  mutual  friend  and  music-teacher,  herself  a  wit  of 
the  first  order,  sat  by,  laughing  and  cheering  us  on. 

Iler  temper,  too,  was  like  the  little  island  of  Santa-Cruz,  perpetual 
blossom  and  sunshine.  So  admirably  were  her  gifts  of  mind  tempered  by 
the  graces  of  her  heart,  that  none  of  us  thought  of  being  jealous,  but  all 
loved  "  la  petite  fee"  as  we  often  called  her. 

At  length  our  school-days  were  ended — those  sweet  May-days,  when 
the  halcyon  built  her  nest  upon  the  waves  of  life,  and  snowy  sails  were 
filled  with  odorous  breezes.  Ah,  those  were  the  days  when  a  French 
dialogue  had  more  glory  than  the  most  gorgeous  gala-day  at  Victoria's 
court. 

But  those  sweet  days  passed  away — away — yet  our  friendship  passed 
not.  We  grew  into  womanhood.  Still  every  evening  we  flew  to  meet 
each  other  with  the  eagerness  of  children,  and  hand  in  hand  we  traversed 
the  shady  walks  of  my  native  village. 

Again  the  kaleidoscope  of  life  was  changed ;  but  again  a  kind  Provi- 
dence threw  us  together.  She  became  the  wife  of  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel — of  whom  else  could  she  have  been  the  wife  ?  He  was  my  pastor ; 
and  she  my  pastor's  wife — the  dear  little  fairy. 

And  then  she  was  a  mother,  and  held  in  her  arms  her  first-born,  and 
hung  enraptured  on  its  smiles.  She  had  never  known  any  sorrow — never ! 
Trained  by  kind,  judicious,  and  religious  parents,  married  to  a  gentle, 
tender  husband,  she  had  ever  been  so  shielded,  that  the  rough  winds  of 
adversity  could  not  reach  her.  But  as  she  held  her  babe  in  her  arms,  and  the 
mother's  soul  revelled  in  all  those  blissful  emotions  that  only  a  mother's  soul 
can  know,   God   said:   "Give   it   to   me!"   and — she  gave  it  to  him!     She 


360  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

reached  forth  no  rebellious  arms  to  snatch  back  her  receding  child  :  she  sent 
up  no  murmuring  cry.  She  gave  it  to  him !  and  meekly  folded  her  hands 
upon  the  heart  from  which  the  life-blood  was  oozing. 

I  shall  never  forget  it — the  day  she  came  to  spend  with  me  in  the  country, 
when  her  little  one  was  gone.  The  pale  face  is  still  before  me,  and  the 
mourning  garb,  as  she  walked  with  me  among  the  shrubbery,  and  plucked  the 
rose-buds  and  tried  to  talk  cheerfully,  and  to  manifest  an  interest  in  the 
things  about  her ;  and  sweetly  she  spoke  of  the  love  of  God. 

I  have  read  sermons  on  resignation,  and  I  have  listened  to  them  from  the 
lips  of  the  most  eloquent  preachers,  and  the  waves  of  time  have  washed  out 
in  part  or  entirely  the  impression ;  but  a  sermon  that  can  never  be  washed 
out,  an  impression  that  can  never  be  erased,  a  lesson  in  resignation  that  can 
never  be  forgotten,  is  the  memory  of  that  pale  woman,  amid  the  rose-bushes 
— the  countenance  so  filled  with  mingled  anguish  and  submission.  Such,  oh, 
my  God,  are  the  sermons  preached  by  thy  true  children — sermons  which 
shall  tell  in  Eternity  ! 

And  now,  when  my  soul  chafes  at  the  cords  that  bind  it,  or  frets  at  the 
control  of  circumstances,  or  is  tempted  foolishly  to  murmur  at  the  good  pro- 
vidence of  God,  suddenly  a  grove  surrounds  me,  and  lilacs  spring  up,  with 
blushing,  pendent  blossoms,  and  rose-bushes  with  bursting  buds,  and  from 
out  the  blooming  roses  arises  the  sweet  face  of  my  friend,  and  it  says  to  my 
troubled  heart,  "Peace,  be  still!" 


THE   MAGIC  RING. 

I  have  in  my  possession  a  ring.  It  looks  much  like  other  rings,  wrought 
of  gold  plainly,  and,  instead  of  a  sparkling  gem,  containing  what  is  worth  a 
great  deal  more  to  me — a  single  plait  of  hair. 

Yet  there  is  something  very  strange  about  this  ring.  Let  me  whisper  to 
you:  it  is  a  magic  ring,  and  shows  me  such  beautiful  things!  It  would  make 
your  very  heart  dance  like  an  Easter  sun  to  see  them.  It  was  but  a  few 
evenings  since  that  I  sat  at  an  open  window.  The  wind  was  passing  over 
the  fields  of  ripened  grain,  converting  it  into  flowing  waves  of  gold.  The 
senses  were  bathed  in  the  odors  of  new-mown  hay.  The  hard-working  bee 
was  just  crawling  into  his  hive,  weighed  down  with  wax — the  gathering  of 
the  day.  The  whole  western  sky  was  a  flood  of  rosy  light ;  and  while  I  gazed 
at  it,  I  wondered  if  heaven  could  be  fairer. 


JAXE    T.    H.    CROSS.  3(31 

Presently  my  eye  fell,  and  rested  upon  the  ring.  It  did  not  disturb  the 
sweet  thoughts  that  nature  had  poured  into  my  heart.  There  lay,  inclosed 
in  the  circlet  of  gold,  that  little  lock  of  auburn  hair.  It  was  shorn  from  the 
head  of  my  earliest  friend  and  playmate — dear  "Mary." 

But,  as  I  continued  to  look,  how  was  I  surprised  to  see  the  plait  untwist- 
ing, and  forming  itself  into  tiny  ringlets  like  curling  sunbeams !  But  it  did 
not  stop  there.  When  the  hair  all  hung  in  clustering  bunches,  I  saw  beneath 
a  faint  mist,  that  after  awhile  began  to  assume,  very  indistinctly,  the  form 
of  human  features,  and  at  last  there  flashed  out  two  great  brown  eyes  as 
you  have  seen  two  stars  burst  through  the  evening  sky  ;  and  then  came  the 
white  brow,  and  the  nose,  and  laughing  mouth,  full  of  glittering  teeth.  Oh, 
was  it  not  beautiful  ?  A  face  like  the  Italian  paintings  of  Beatrice  Cenci — 
so  firm,  so  brave,  yet  so  lovely.     Truthfulness  was  written  on  every  line. 

After  the  face,  the  whole  form  appeared ;  and  it  was  a  little  girl,  and  she 
was  going  to  school,  with  her  basket,  and  her  dinner,  and  her  satchel  of 
books ;  and  my  spirit  could  discern  what  the  little  chatterer  was  saying, 
though  no  mortal  ear  save  mine  could  hear  a  sound :  nor  mine  unless  my 
eye  was  fixed  upon  the  magic  ring.  She  sang,  she  laughed,  she  leaped  over 
every  object  that  came  in  her  way. 

Though  it  was  ripe  summer  around  me,  in  the  ring  it  was  but  the  spring- 
tide ;  and  the  bursting  roses  were  not  gayer  than  the  child  that  was  playing 
among  them.  Soon  I  saw  her  pass  under  the  cherry-trees,  and  come  to  the 
white  school-house.  It  was  still  play-time,  and  the  scholars  all  gathered 
around  her,  and  began  to  speak  eagerly  of  their  May-day,  for  it  was  fast 
coming  on,  and  she  would  be  their  May-queen,  for  she  was  not  yet  chosen. 
But  the  teacher  was  seen  coming  along  the  gravel- walk,  and  her  brow  was 
very  stern.  They  saw  that  something  had  displeased  her :  so  the  children 
all  walked  into  the  school-room,  and  sat  upon  their  benches  quite  mute  and 
still. 

As  soon  as  the  school  was  opened,  she  called  little  Mary  to  her,  and 
spoke  to  her  angrily.  I  could  not  exactly  hear  what  she  said,  for  the 
ring  does  not  give  out  distinctly  tones  of  anger ;  but  I  gathered  that  the 
child  had  repeated  something  imprudently,  and  the  teacher  was  urging  her 
to  say  who  had  told  her,  that  the  author  might  be  punished.  At  the  first 
words  of  rebuke  the  little  girl's  face  was  flushed  as  a  crimson  rose,  and  the 
tears  flashed  over  it  in  big  drops  of  summer  rain ;  but  when  the  teacher 
continued  to  insist  on  her  giving  the  name  of  her  informer,  she  ceased  to 
weep,  and  looking  calmly  up,  she  replied,  "I  will  not  tell,  madam."     Then  I 


362  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

heard  the  teacher  say  something  about  "  a  willful  falsehood ;"  and  she  led  the 
little  girl  along,  who  went  very  quietly,  till  they  came  to  an  "upstairs" 
room,  away  from  the  school.  Into  this  room  Mary  was  put,  and  the  door 
was  shut  and  locked,  and  she  was  left  quite  alone. 

At  first  she  wept ;  but  after  a  few  moments  she  threw  her  check  apron 
up  over  her  face,  and  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  murmured  to  herself,  "  Well, 
I  don't  care.  It  is  not  false :  it  is  true,  for  Sis  told  me  so.  But  Sis  is  sick 
to-day,  and  cannot  come  to  school ;  so  she  will  not  know  it,  and  I  shall  not 
tell,  and  they  cannot  punish  her." 

Then  she  crept  to  the  window,  and,  climbing  upon  a  stool,  she  looked 
at  the  white  blossoms  on  the  tops  of  the  cherry-trees,  and  listened  to  a 
red-bird  as  it  kept  singing,  "Sweet,  O  sweet,  O  sweet,  O  sweet!"  and  she 
wished  they  would  come  and  let  her  out.  At  last  her  head  dropped  upon 
the  window-sill,  her  snowy  eyelids  closed,  and  the  last  tear-drop  fell,  and 
lay  glittering  upon  her  cheek.  She  was  asleep.  Her  face  grew  bright  with 
smiles ;  and  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  talking  to  her,  and  telling  her 
strange  stories  of  the  far-off  land- 

A  long  time  she  had  thus  lain  and  slept,  and  smiled  to  listen  to  the  angels, 
when  she  was  aroused  by  a  message  from  the  teacher.  She  returned  to  the 
school-room,  where  she  found  her  sister,  who  had  recovered  from  her  indis- 
position, and  had  come  to  school.  Finding  Mary  absent,  she  inquired  the 
cause ;  and  when  she  had  learned  it,  at  once  avowed  the  truth.  Mary's 
teacher  was  then  very  sorry,  and  sent  for  her ;  and  I  heard  her  say  to  the 
scholars :  "  This  noble  little  girl  would  not  tell  a  falsehood,  but  preferred 
being  punished  herself  to  having  her  sister  punished.  How  shall  she  be 
rewarded  ?"  And  their  voices,  which  sounded  in  the  magic  ring  as  loud  as 
the  noise  of  the  humming-bird,  shouted,  "  She  is  our  Queen  of  May !  Our 
Queen  of  May!" 

Then  came  the  May-day  and  the  May-pole,  and  the  basket  of  roses,  and 
festoons  of  flowers,  and  the  pattering  of  busy,  happy  feet ;  and  Mary  walked 
into  the  midst  of  her  companions — their  queen — in  a  white  muslin  dress,  and 
a  garland  around  her  head,  composed  of  buds  entwisted  with  green  leaves 
and  white  roses,  half  bursting.  But  when  at  last  they  reached  the  bower, 
and  the  little  girls  began  to  sing  a  song  of  welcome  around  her,  my  heart 
overflowed,  tears  of  joy  blinded  my  eyes,  and  before  I  knew  it,  I  exclaimed, 
"  Dear  Mary  !  dear  sister  of  my  heart !"  The  charm  was  broken,  the  vision 
vanished ;  and  when  I  wiped  away  the  tears,  that  I  might  see,  nothing 
remained  but  the  simple  plait  of  auburn  hair. 


JANE    T.   H.   CROSS.  363 


THE  MAN-ANGEL. 


The  heart-blossom  that  I  pluck  this  evening,  to  weave  into  your  little 
garland,  is  a  very  sweet  one — a  pale  floweret  of  memory  that  often  opens 
and  sheds  its  fragrance  around  me  in  the  night-time.  It  is  my  recollec- 
tion of  an  angel  that  I  once  knew.  Now  I  see  your  eyes  begin  to  twinkle, 
and  a  smile  play  around  your  rose-bud  lips ;  for  you  do  not  believe  that 
I  ever  indeed  knew  an  angel,  and  think  that  I  intend  to  "make  up"  a 
story  only  to  amuse  you ;  but  I  am  serious :  I  once  knew  an  angel,  and 
used  to  go  see  him,  and  sometimes  he  would  come  to  see  me. 

How  do  you  suppose  he  looked?  Do  you  think  his  long  sunny  curls 
fell  over  shoulders  as  fair  as  moonlight ;  that  his  delicate  feet  were  like 
mother  of  pearl ;  and  that  his  wings  rustled  softly  as  he  folded  them 
together,  as  the  leaves  of  the  aspen  do ;  that  his  words  flowed  forth  a 
perpetual  music — an  unceasing  song  of  joy ;  and  that  he  made  his  home 
in  some  bright  star,  such  as  Sirius,  to  which  he  would  float  off  in  the 
evening,  looking,  in  the  distance,  like  a  silvery  cloud  amid  the  blue  air? 
You  are  all  wrong.  He  was  none  of  that.  It  is  true  he  had  a  lovely 
face,  because  it  was  full  of  love  for  everything ;  and  his  lips  were  beauti- 
ful, because  they  spoke  comfort  to  everybody ;  and  his  eye  was  full  of 
light,  which  it  had  drawn  from  heaven,  and  which  it  had  shed  upon 
earth;  but  when  I  knew  him  his  hair  was  white,  for  the  sorrows  of 
many  years  had  bleached  it ;  and  his  feet  were  encased  in  stout  leather 
shoes,  which  were  covered  with  dust  in  travelling  from  house  to  house 
on  his  errands  of  charity  ;  and  his  clothes  were  very  plain,  for  the  money 
which  would  have  bought  him  finer  was  given  to  clothe  the  naked. 

His  house  was  a  humble  one — a  long,  low,  brick  dwelling,  that  had 
three  rooms.  One  of  these  was  his  school-room ;  for  he  spent  many  years 
among  those  dear  little  beings  who  are  the  only  things  in  all  our  world 
of  which  Christ  has  said — "  I  If  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

In  his  room  you  would  find  a  bed  and  a  table,  a  cupboard,  and  a  few 
chairs.  If  there  were  other  pieces  of  furniture,  they  were  usually  lent  to 
others,  who  perhaps  may  not  have  needed  them  so  much.  Upon  the  wall 
hung  a  few  pictures  of  his  friends.  One  was  a  miniature  of  Thomas 
Jefferson,  given  by  the  hand  of  the  President  himself  to  this  Man-Angel; 
and  I  have  often  thought  that  the  great  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence might  veil  his  face  before  this — his  early  friend. 


364  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

In  the  windows  of  Ins  room  were  sweet  and  blushing  verbenas,  and 
"lady's  ear-drops,"  and  blowing  roses;  and  upon  the  table,  under  the 
window,  lay  the  old  Bible.  This  was  his  casket  of  jewels,  and  hence  he 
drew  the  ornaments  that  made  him  so  glorious. 

How  often  in  this  room  have  I  looked  at  the  dear  old  man  and  his 
gentle  wife,  while  their  two  grandchildren  played  about  the  door !  and  I 
have  tried  to  think  of  somebody  in  history  or  in  romance  to  whom  I  could 
compare  him.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  but 
the  Vicar  was  not  so  pious,  and  I  have  said  to  myself,  "  No,  he  is  a 
Man-Angel;"  and  I  have  felt  there  was  something  awful  in  the  presence 
of  such  sublime  virtue. 

On  one  occasion,  after  a  severe  illness,  I  heard  him  say,  "  Death  looked 
me  in  the  face,  and  I  thank  God,  I  could  look  him  in  the  face."  Think 
of  that  !  To  be  able  to  look  death  in  the  face !  and  with  that  serene,  high 
look  !     Was  it  not  beautiful  ? 

I  might  tell  you  many  stories  that  would  interest  you,  and  make  you  love 
this  being,  and  make  you  love  virtue  more.  I  could  tell  you  how  often, 
when  I  have  been  weary  and  dispirited,  he  has  come,  and,  sitting  quietly 
beside  me,  has  spoken  to  me  like  a  messenger  from  heaven,  so  encouragingly 
and  kindly,  that  he  has  left  my  heart  gladdened,  as  he  has  gone  forth  on  his 
mission  to  pour  the  bright  waters  of  consolation  on  some  other  drooping 
head.     He  was  an  apostle,  baptizing  every  heart  with  joy. 

I  bail  nut  known  him  long,  when  a  dreadful  sickness  swept  through  our 
town.  Many  of  the  people  fled  in  terror — many  remained  trembling  every 
hour,  lest  death  should  enter  their  dwellings.  Then  might  be  seen  at  all 
times,  this  Man-Angel — "unhasting,  unresting" — making  his  rounds  amid 
sickness,  and  suffering,  and  death.  The  perverse  patient  who  refused  to  take 
medicine  from  all  others,  received  the  bitter  draught  from  his  hand.  "  When 
the  ear  heard  him,  it  blessed  him ;  and  when  the  eyes  saw  him,  it  gave  wit- 
ness unto  him." 

It  seems  but  yesterday  that  he  was  here  "with  us,  but  not  of  us."  At 
last,  one  sad  morning,  it  was  said,  "  He  also  is  ill ;"  and  every  physician  in 
the  place  was  around  his  bed,  and  his  lowly  dwelling  was  crowded  with 
those  that  loved  him ;  and  every  one  felt  it  a  privilege  to  be  permitted  to 
hand  him  a  drink  of  water,  or  to  adjust  his  pillow,  or  to  wipe  the  cold  sweat 
from  his  brow.  There  the  rich  and  the  poor  met  together  to  do  him  honor, 
and  they  tried  very  hard  to  save  him ;  but  he  said,  "  Nay,  if  it  be  God's 
will,  I  would  rather  die."     And  one  would  not  wonder  at  this ;  for  it  was 


JANE    T.    H.   CROSS.  365 

natural  that  he  should  not  wish  to  stay  with  w,  because  he  was  not  like  us ; 
hut  he  wanted  to  go  where  his  Father  was,  and  where  his  brother  angels 
were,  and  where  his  fortune  was,  that  he  had  "  sent  before  him  in  the  shape 
of  alms."     Was  he  not  right  ? 

I  looked  on  the  face  of  the  dying  saint ;  and  my  soul  kept  praying  silently 
to  God,  that  the  mantle  of  this  Elijah  might  fall  upon  me  ;  but  oh,  I  am  not 
like  him ! 

They  dressed  him  in  a  suit  of  clothes  which  the  ladies  of  the  town  had 
given  him,  and  which  he  would  not  wear  while  he  lived,  because  he  would 
wear  nothing  he  had  not  paid  for  himself,  so  independent  was  he ;  and 
then  they  spread  a  white  sheet  over  him;  and  when  the  people  were 
gone,  and  the  house  was  hushed,  I  reverently  turned  down  the  sheet  and 
gazed  on  the  face  of  death.  Oh,  I  have  seen  most  beautiful  things  !  beautiful 
painting,  and  beautiful  sculpture  !  I  have  gazed  upon  the  face  of  a  lovely 
woman,  until  my  heart  has  "reeled  with  its  fullness."  In  nature  and  in  art 
I  have  seen  much  that  is  a  delight  to  look  upon.  But  never,  never,  have  I 
seen  anything  more  solemnly  beautiful  than  the  dead  face  of  that  "  Man- 
Angel." 

SYRINGA. 

"  Oh  !  who  is  there  among  us  in  whom  childhood  is  not  a  thousand  times  awakened  by  music  ? 

And  she  speaks  to  him,  and  asks  him,  'Have  not  the  rose-buds  yet  opened  that  I  gave  thee?' 

'  Ah,  yes,  indeed,  they  have  opened,  but  they  were  white  roses. '  " — Jean  Paul. 

Once  when  it  was  early  morning,  in  a  meadow  broad  and  green, 
Sat  I  by  a  singing  streamlet,  sat  I  gazing  on  its  sheen — 

Gazing,  too,  upon  the  shadows  of  the  broad  leaved  sycamore, 
While  they  danced  upon  the  waters,  as  upon  a  crystal  floor. 

Fleecy  clouds  above  me  floated,  floated  slowly  on  the  air : 
Soft,  subduing  strains  of  music  chased  away  the  bosom's  care. 

O'er  the  meadow  came  a  maiden  tripping  through  the  pearly  dew, 
And  the  drops  were  thickly  glittering  on  her  foot  without  a  shoe : 

O'er  her  shoulders  hung  her  tresses,  long,  and  fair,  and  golden  hnng — 
Then  she  oped  her  lips,  and  sweetly  spoke  the  little  maiden's  tongue  : 


3G6  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  Here  my  apron  full  of  blossoms — blossoms  in  the  bud  I  bring, 
Take,  and  keep  them,  till  they  open  wide  and  blushing  in  the  spring." 

I  have  kept  the  buds,  fair  maiden,  water'd  them  at  morn  and  night ; 
And  the  buds  have  open'd,  maiden,  but  the  roses  all  are  white.'''' 


THE  RILL. 

Adown  a  sunny  mountain  side, 

A  streamlet  rippled  gay  and  proud ; 

And,  fast  and  faster  as  it  hied, 

It  smiled,  and  sang,  and  laugh'd  aloud. 

For  'mid  the  rocks  and  woods,  its  home 
"Was  in  that  mountain  hid  from  sight ; 

And  it  had  come  abroad  to  roam, 
And  revel  in  the  golden  light. 

"Now,  Ocean,  ho!  now,  Ocean,  ho!" 
It  sang  with  many  a  merry  wink  :■ 

"Dark  home,  unloved,  from  thee,  I  go, 
Into  the  ocean's  lap  to  sink  !" 

But,  lo  !  a  precipice  so  deep, 
It  makes  the  little  wavelets  whirl ! 

It  pauses — now  it  takes  the  leap, 

And  falls  below  in  showers  of  pearl ! 

Then  on  it  goes,  o'er  many  a  mile, 

Nor  seeks  the  sun,  nor  fears  the  cloud ; 

And  "Ocean,  ho!"  it  cries  the  while, 
'•  Old  Ocean,  ho!"  and  laughs  aloud. 

Nor  valleys  green,  nor  smiling  meads, 
Can  turn  it  from  its  steady  way ; 

Nor  flowrets  fair,  nor  flaunting  weeds, 
Can  tempt  it  in  its  course  to  stay. 


JANE    T.  II.   CROSS.  367 

And  now  it  rolls  a  river  wide, 

"While  forests  rear  themselves  around  ; 
And  goodly  cities  stand  heside 

The  ever-smiling,  ocean-bound. 

Nor  rolling  car,  nor  rattling  dray, 

Nor  puffing  boat,  the  current  heeds ; 
But  onward  still  it  wends  its  way, 

Still  onward  on  the  ocean  speeds. 

As  thus  unheeding  flows  the  rill, 

To  mingle  with  the  boundless  sea, 
The  earnest  spirit  upward  still 

Directs  its  course,  0  God,  to  thee ! 


SONNET. 

(wiTn    A    WITHERED    LEAF.) 

This  that  I  send — this  simple  withered  leaf, 
Might  float  unnoted  on  the  wind  or  tide, 
Or  by  the  careless  foot  be  thrust  aside, 

Nor  to  the  heart  bring  aught  of  joy  or  grief. 
It  knew  no  brighter  birth  than  other  plants, 

To  no  more  verdant  coloring  was  born ; 

Indeed,  it  might,  perchance,  have  been  the  scorn 
Of  some  gay  flower  that  on  the  light  breeze  flaunts. 

Wherefore  is  then  the  offering?     Where  the  charm, 
That  makes  this  trifling  leaf  a  treasured  thing? 
The  atmosphere  that  nursed  it  heard  Mm  sing, 

"Whose  tuneful  notes  the  world  were  loth  to  lose  : 

In  Petrarch's  haunts  it  grew — shield  it.  from  harm  ! 

A  sad  and  sweet  memento,  plucked  beside  Vaucluse ! 


MARY    S.    B.    DANA    SHINDLER. 

Music  is  a  fine  immortalizer  of  poetry.  A  song  that  comes 
to  us,  pulsing  not  only  with  faultless  rhythm  and  true  sentiment, 
but  with  "  concord  of  sweet  sounds,"  we  never  forget.  All 
through  life  the  worded  strain  sings  on  in  our  hearts ;  we  doubt, 
indeed,  if  it  be  lost  when  the  new  life  begins.  Witness  to  this 
the  dear  old  melodies,  "  Sweet  Home,"  "  I  would  not  Live 
Alway,"  "The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,"  "Woodman  Spare  that 
Tree,"  and  a  whole  host  of  simple  ballads,  which  our  hearts 
could  not  unlearn  if  they  would.  It  seems  very  easy  to  make 
songs,  and  so,  doubtless,  it  is  for  those  naturally  gifted  in  that 
delicate  department  of  art ;  but  the  poet  is  not  always,  nor 
necessarily,  a  song-writer.  His  production  may  lack  no  one  of 
the  elements  of  a  true  poem — may  flow  in  pure  and  perfect 
cadences,  yet  be  wanting  in  the  subtle  adaptation  to  methodical 
music,  which  belongs  to  the  song  proper. 

In  this  line  of  poetic  inspiration,  Mrs.  Dana — now  Mrs. 
Shindler — has  been  eminently  successful.  Her  "  Northern  "  and 
"  Southern  Harp  "  have  become  a  household  institution.  Acting 
upon  the  brusqve  suggestion  of  some  one — we  cannot  now 
recall  whom — that  our  sweetest  music  had  belonged  to  the 
devil  long  enough,  she  selected  some  of  our  most  popular  and 
delicious  airs,  and  wedded  to  them  the  flowing  words  of  her 
own  sainted  and  sorrowing  Muse.  As  a  Sunday  evening 
resource  alone,  these  collections  are  priceless. 

Mary  Stanly  Bunce  Palmer  was  born  in  Beaufort,  South 


MARY    S.  B.   DANA    SHINDLER.  369 

Carolina,  in  1S10.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Eev.  Benjamin  M. 
Palmer,  D.D.,  who  was,  at  that  time,  pastor  of  the  Congrega- 
tional Church  in  Beaufort.  In  1814,  the  family  removed  to 
Charleston,  Dr.  Palmer  having  been  called  to  the  pastorate  of 
the  Independent  church  in  that  city.  His  congregation  was 
principally  made  up  of  planters,  who  divided  the  year  between 
the  city  and  their  large  plantations.  Reverting  to  this  period 
of  her  life,  Mrs.  Shindler  says  : 

"  I  well  remember  the  delight  with  which  we  children  used 
to  anticipate  our  spring  and  Christmas  holidays,  which  we  were 
sure  to  spend  upon  some  neighboring  plantation,  released  from  all 
our  city  trammels,  running  perfectly  wild,  as  all  city  children 
were  expected  to  do,  contracting  sudden  and  violent  intimacies 
in  all  the  negro  houses,  about  Easter  and  Christmas  times,  that 
we  might  have  a  store  of  eggs  for  sundry  purposes,  for  which 
we  gave,  in  exchange,  the  most  gaudy  cotton  handkerchiefs  that 
could  be  bought  in  Charleston.  It  was  during  these  delightful 
rural  visits  that  what  little  poetry  I  have  in  my  nature  was  fos- 
tered and  developed  ;  and  at  an  early  age  I  became  sensible  of 
something  within  me  which  often  brought  tears  to  my  eyes 
when  I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  express  my  feelings.  The 
darkness  and  loneliness  of  our  vast  forests  filled  me  with  inde- 
scribable emotions,  and  above  all  other  sounds,  the  music  of  the 
thousand  iEolian  harps  sighing  and  wailing  through  a  forest  of 
pines,  was  most  affecting  to  my  youthful  heart." 

Miss  Palmer  was  not  only  reared  in  a  fine  social  atmosphere, 
but  enjoyed,  in  her  own  home,  the  most  careful  and  judicious 
culture.  She  commenced  her  school-life  under  the  charge  of 
the  Misses  Ramsay,  daughters  of  Daniel  Ramsay,  the  historian, 
and  grand-daughters  of  Mr.  Laurens,  who  figured  in  the  history 
of  the  Revolution.  In  1S25,  she  accompanied  her  parents  to 
Hartford,  Connecticut,  and  was  then  placed  in  the  seminary  of 
Rev.  Mr.  Emerson,  at  "Wethersfield,  Connecticut.     In  1826,  she 

24 


370  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

entered  the  Young  Ladies'  Seminary  at  Elizabethtown,  New 
Jersey,  intending  to  remain  long  enough  at  the  North  to  rein- 
state her  health,  which  was  then  very  delicate  ;  but  she  began 
to  pine  for  her  Southern  home,  and  in  six  months  was  allowed 
to  return  to  it.  Several  months  were  afterward  spent  by  her 
in  a  seminary  at  New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

At  this  time  she  was  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  "  Rose 
Bud,"  a  periodical  then  under  the  editorial  charge  of  Mrs. 
Gilman. 

On  the  19th  of  June,  1835,  she  married  Mr.  Charles  E. 
Dana,  and  accompanied  him  to  New  York,  where  they  resided 
for  three  years.  During  these  years  she  continued  to  write 
poetry,  but  published  nothing  until  1841.  The  mournful  tone 
of  her  muse  is  best  explained  by  the  following  extract  from  the 
introduction  to  the  "  Southern  Harp :" 


There  was  a  time  when  all  to  me  was  light; 
No  shadows  stole  across  my  pathway  bright. 
I  had  a  darling  sister — but  she  died. 
For  many  years  we  wandered  side  by  side, 
And  oft  these  very  songs  she  sung  with  me; 
No  wonder  then,  if  they  should  plaintive  be! 
I  had  an  only  brother — and  Tie  died — 
Away  from  home,  and  from  his  lovely  bride ; 
And  not  long  after,  those  I  loved  too  well, 
Pale — cold — and  still — in  death's  embraces  fell ; 
In  two  short  days  on  me  no  more  they  smiled, 
My  noble  husband,  and  my  only  child  ! 
'Twas  sorrow  made  me  write  these  plaintive  lays; 
And  yet,  if  sad  they  are,  they  end  in  praise. 
Oh,  God !  I  thank  thee  for  my  mother's  breast, 
Where  I  can  lay  my  head,  and  sweetly  rest! 
I  thank  thee  for  my  father's  fostering  arms, 
On  which  I  lean,  and  fear  no  rude  alarms ! 


MARY    S.    B.    DANA    SHINDLER.  371 

Oh  ye  who've  reached  the  lofty  heights  of  fame, 

Remember  mine  is  but  a  youthful  name. 

I  pray  you  with  benignant  eyes  look  down, 

Nor  from  your  intellectual  eyries  frown 

On  one,  whose  trembling  steps  have  just  begun 

To  climb  th'  ascent  your  eagle  flights  have  won. 

No  laurel  wreath,  to  decorate  my  brow, 

Held  out  by  fame's  bright  goddess,  lures  me  now. 

May  I  but  know  I've  done  my  humble  part, 

By  poetry  and  song,  to  cheer  the  heart, 

Or  wake  in  any  breast  one  thrilling  chord, 

'Tis  all  I  ask — 'twill  be  a  rich  reward ! 


After  the  death  of  her  husband  and  son,  in  1839,  to  wile  her 
mind  from  sorrowful  memories,  Mrs.  Dana  turned  to  literary 
pursuits,  and  at  last  conceived  the  happy  idea  of  adapting  sacred 
words  to  popular  secular  music,  which  resulted  in  the  "  South- 
ern Harp."  This  collection  was  published  early  in  the  year 
1841,  at  New  York. 

From  that  time  she  wrote  constantly,  and  soon  produced 
another  volume,  similar  in  design  to  the  first,  which  was  pub- 
lished under  the  title  of  the  "  Northern  Harp,"  and  proved 
equally  successful.  About  this  time  she  also  published  a  volume 
of  poems,  entitled  "  The  Parted  Family  and  other  Poems," 
which  had'a  large  sale. 

In  1843,  she  produced  a  prose  work  called  "  Charles  Mor- 
ton, or  the  Young  Patriot,"  a  tale  of  the  Revolution,  which  was 
soon  followed  by  "  The  Young  Sailor,"  and  "  Forecastle  Tom." 
These  works  were  all  well  received. 

Mrs.  Dana  had  been  bred  strictly  in  the  Calvinistic  school, 
but  in  the  year  1844  she  began  to  question  the  grounds  of  Trini- 
tarian doctrine,  and  early  in  the  year  1845,  to  the  regretful  sur- 
prise of  her  parents  and  friends,  embraced  the  Unitarian  faith. 
To  define  and  defend  her  position,  she  then  published  a  volume 


372  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

entitled  "  Letters  to  Relatives  and  Friends."  This  work,  the 
largest  of  her  prose  volumes,  appeared  in  1845,  and  was  at  once 
republished  in  London. 

In  1847,  she  was  severely  afflicted  in  the  death  of  both 
parents :  and  on  the  18th  of  May,  1848,  became  the  wife  of 
Rev.  Robert  D.  Shindler,  of  the  Episcopal  Church.  Having 
returned  to  her  early  faith,  they  are  in  full  communion. 

In  April,  1850,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shindler  removed  to  Mary- 
land, and  subsequently  to  Shelbyville,  Kentucky,  where  Mr. 
Shindler  accepted  a  professorship  in  Shelby  College. 


THE  MORNING  STAR  OF  THE  SPIRIT. 

When  evening  steals  o'er  me  with  silence  and  gloom, 
And  night-flowers  are  breathing  their  fragrant  perfume, 
Then,  softly  retiring,  and  kneeling  alone, 
I  may  ask  Heaven's  mercy  for  the  hours  that  are  gone. 

The  bright  stars  may  spangle  the  blue  vaulted  sky, 
And  dearly  I  love  them,  gay  dwellers  on  high ; 
But  the  night  of  my  soul  would  be  starless  and  drear, 
If  the  bright  "morning-star"  did  not  shine  on  me  there. 

O  star  of  my  spirit !  thy  soft  polar  ray 
Can  warm  me,  and  cheer  me,  and  brighten  my  way  ; 
For  earth's  dearest  pleasures  seem  changeful  to  me, 
Like  the  gay-dancing  sunbeams  that  shine  on  the  sea. 


THE  FADED  FLOWER  AND  THE  CRUSHED  HEART. 

I  have  seen  a  fragrant  flower 

All  inipearled  with  morning  dew ; 

I  have  plucked  it  from  the  bower, 
Where  in  loveliness  it  grew. 


MARY    S.   B.   DANA    SHINDLER.  373 

O,  'twas  sweet,  when  gayly  vying 

With  the  garden's  richest  bloom  ; 
But  when  faded,  withered,  dying, 

Sweeter  far  its  choice  perfume. 

So  the  heart,  when  crushed  by  sorrow, 

Sends  its  richest  streams  abroad, 
While  it  learns  sweet  balm  to  borrow 

From  th'  uplifted  hand  of  God. 
Not  in  its  sunny  days  of  gladness 

Will  the  heart  be  fixed  on  Heaven ; 
When  'tis  wounded,  clothed  in  sadness, 

Oft  its  richest  love  is  given. 


THE  BLEST,  ETERNAL  HOME. 

There's  not  a  bright  and  beaming  smile, 

Which  in  this  world  I  see, 
But  turns  my  heart  to  futurejoy, 

And  whispers  "  heaven  "  to  me. 
Though  often  here  my  soul  is  sad, 

And  falls  the  silent  tear, 
There  is  a  world  of  smiles  and  love, 

And  sorrow  dwells  not  there. 


I  never  clasp  a  friendly  hand, 

In  greeting  or  farewell, 
But  thoughts  of  my  eternal  home 

Within  my  bosom  swell. 
There,  when  we  meet  with  holy  joy, 

Xi  i  thoughts  of  parting  come, 
But  never-ending  ages  still 

Shall  find  us  all  at  home. 


3^4  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


SHED  NOT  A  TEAR. 

Shed  not  a  tear  o'er  your  friend's  early  bier, 

When  I  am  gone,  when  I  am  gone ; 
Smile  if  the  slow-tolling  bell  you  should  hear, 

When  I  am  gone,  I  am  gone. 
Weep  not  for  me  when  you  stand  round  my  grave, 
Think  who  has  died  his  beloved  to  save, 
Think  of  the  crown  all  the  ransomed  shall  have, 

When  I  am  gone,  I  am  gone. 

Plant  ye  a  tree,  which  may  wave  over  me, 

When  I  am  gone,  when  I  am  gone ; 
Sing  ye  a  song  if  my  grave  you  should  see, 

When  I  am  gone,  I  am  gone. 
Come  at  the  close  of  a  bright  summer's  day, 
Come  when  the  sun  sheds  its  last  ling'ring  ray, 
Come,  and  rejoice  that  I  thus  passed  away, 

When  I  am  gone,  I  am  gone. 


LIKE  A  DREAM  WHEN  ONE  AWAKETII. 

Like  a  dream  when  one  awaketh, 

Vanished  away, 
Earthly  joy  the  heart  forsaketh, 

Doomed  to  decay ; 
But  when  flesh  and  spirit  faileth, 

Heaven  grows  more  dear, 
And  when  grief  the  heart  assaileth, 

O,  shed  no  tear. 

Dearest  hopes  and  joys  may  perish, 

Lost  in  an  hour ; 
All  the  love  the  heart  can  cherish 

May  lose  its  power. 


MARY    S.   B.   DANA    SHINDLER.  375 

AYhen  the  storm  is  gathering  o'er  thee, 

Do  not  despair  ; 
Eeaven  can  every  joy  restore  thee, 

More  pure  and  fair. 

Mid  thy  gloom  and  desolation, 

Whene'er  they  come, 
For  thy  peace  and  consolation, 

Think  of  thy  home. 
There  thy  joys  shall  last  forever, 

Changeless  and  bright ; 
Clouds  shall  dim,  O,  never,  never, 

That  world  of  light. 


ANN   ELIZA   DUPITY. 

The  works  of  this  writer,  like  those  of  Mrs.  Southworth, 
have  a  strong  hold  upon  the  popular  mind.  They  abound  in 
the  same  vivid  portraiture  and  sharp  situations,  while  her 
imagination,  taking  a  wide,  idiosyncratic  range,  gives  to  all  her 
productions  the  stamp  of  personality. 

Miss  Dupuy  is  a  native  of  Petersburg,  Va.,  but  removed  in 
early  life  to  Norfolk.  Her  father,  a  merchant  and  ship-owner 
of  that  city,  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  Huguenots.  Soon 
after  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of  Nantes,  her  distinguished 
ancestor — an  officer  of  noble  blood  in  the  army  of  Louis  XIV. 
— set  sail  with  a  faithful  band  of  Huguenots  for  America,  and 
colonized  upon  the  James  River,  upon  a  tract  of  land  which 
had  been  granted  them  by  James  II.  of  England.  On  the 
maternal  side,  she  is  descended  from  Joel  Sturdevant,  one  of 
the  heroes  of  the  Revolution,  who  fitted  up  a  privateer  at  his 
own  expense,  and  performed  such  good  service  that  he  received 
the  title  of  Commodore. 

Before  our  author  had  reached  womanhood,  her  father, 
impelled  by  pecuniary  reverses,  emigrated  to  Kentucky.  It 
was  in  aid  of  his  efforts  to  retrieve  their  fallen  fortunes,  that 
her  first  work — "  Merton ;  a  Tale  of  the  Revolution  " — was 
written. 

After  the  death  of  her  father,  she  commenced  a  strict  course 
of  study,  and  adopted  the  profession  of  teacher,  jotting  down,  in 
every  ray  of  leisure,  the  thoughts  and  fancies  with  which  her 

876 


ANN    ELIZA    DUPUY.  377 

brain  teemed.  In  this  way,  while  in  her  twenty-second  year, 
she  completed  "  The  Conspirator,''  a  work  winch,  for  historic 
interest  and  graceful  diction,  ranks  among  her  best  efforts.  It 
appeared  first  in  the  "New  World,"  and  was,  several  years 
after,  republished  by  the  Appletons.  The  story  winds  skillfully 
with  the  details  of  Aaron  Burr's  conspiracy,  and  is  lighted  by 
many  pleasing  pictures  of  Southern  life  and  scenery. 

In  proof  of  Miss  Dupuy's  steady  application,  executive 
power,  and  mental  resource,  we  have  only  to  say  that,  during 
the  years  in  which  her  freshest  hours  and  energies  were  given 
to  teaching,  she  wrote  and  published  the  following  works : 
"  Celeste,  or  the  Pirate's  Daughter,"  "  The  Separation,"  "  The 
Divorce,"  "  The  Coquette's  Punishment,"  "  Florence,  or  the 
Fatal  Tow,"  "  The  Concealed  Treasure,"  and  "  Ashleigh ;  a 
Tale  of  the  Kevolution." 

Since  she  has  been  able  to  devote  her  time  more  exclusively 
to  literary  pursuits,  she  has  written  "  Emma  Walton,  or  Trials 
and  Triumphs,"  and  "  The  Country  Neighborhood."  These 
stories  are  based  upon  actual  life,  and  the  delineations  of  the 
latter,  especially,  are  strong  and  spirited  ;  but  it  is  in  the  work 
which  follows  these — "  The  Huguenot  Exiles  " — that  we  get  the 
truest  conception  of  Miss  Dupuy's  artistic  skill.  A  lady  of  intel- 
lect and  culture,*  who  is  well  known  to  the  literary  circles  of 
New  Orleans  as  a  critic,  says  of  this  book : 

"  It  is  full  of  scenes  of  most  absorbing  interest,  while  it 
exhibits  the  elegance  of  style  and  purity  of  diction  which 
are  among  Miss  Dupuy's  characteristics  as  a  writer.  It  em- 
bodies the  history  of  the  persecution  which  immediately  pre- 
ceded and  followed  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of  Nantes,  by 
which  so  many  brave  and  noble  subjects  of  Louis  XIV.  were 
driven  from  France,  to  seek  in  our  western  world  '  freedom  to 

*  An  adopted  daughter  of  Prof  Espy. 


378  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

worship  God.'  In  this  tale  the  author  has  gracefully  inter- 
woven the  romantic  history  of  her  own  immediate  ancestor. 
As  a  historical  novel,  it  may  class  with  the  best  in  our  lan- 
guage." 

This  work  was  followed  by  "  The  Planter's  Daughter,"  a 
story  of  southern  life,  full  of  faithful  sketches  in  landscape  and 
portraiture,  and  strongly  marked  with  the  sharp  contrasts  which 
may,  we  think,  be  called  a  specialty  of  this  writer. 

Miss  Dupuy  has  been  also  an  occasional  contributor  to 
several  leading  journals  of  New  York.  Some  of  her  most 
characteristic  stories  have  appeared  in  the  "  Ledger,"  under  the 
name  of  "  Anna  Young."  Among  these,  "  The  Lost  Deeds," 
attracted  much  attention.  Although  founded  upon  a  baseless 
theory,  the  plot  is  well  conceived,  and  might  have  been 
wrought,  with  equal  power,  into  a  tale  of  much  greater  length. 
It  loses,  indeed,  somewhat  in  effect  by  its  abrupt  termination. 

Though  circumstances  have  made  Kentucky  the  nominal 
home  of  our  author,  she  has  passed  the  greater  part  of  her  life 
in  Louisiana  and  Mississippi,  where,  with  one  or  two  exceptions, 
her  works  have  been  written. 

It  is  said  that  she  is  singularly  free  from  affectations,  and 
that  to  rare  conversational  powers  and  fine  culture  she  unites 
sound  judgment,  and  that  inbred  fineness  which  is  the  crowning 
erace  of  true  womanhood. 

The  accomplished  writer  and  critic  before  mentioned  has 
kindly  favored  us  with  a  resume  of  "The  Planter's  Daughter," 
from  which,  as  bearing  directly  upon  the  specimen  chapter 
which  follows,  we  give  this  extract : 

"  Victor,  a  self-indulgent  young  man,  madly  in  love  with 
one  whom  wealth  alone  can  win,  and  driven  to  desperation  by 
reverses  of  fortune,  determined  to  rob  a  corpse  of  diamonds  of 
immense  value,  which  had  been  buried  with  their  possessor,  a 
French  emigre  of  the  old  regime.     He  succeeds,  and  in  exulta- 


ANN    ELIZA    DUPUY.  379 

tion  seeks  Louise  to  claim  her  promise,  to  be  his  when  he  lias 
wealth  to  offer.  This  scene  is  drawn  with  great  skill  and  vivid- 
ness, and  is  founded  upon  an  event  which  actually  occurred  in 
the  vicinity  of  New  Orleans." 


THE  PLANTER'S  DAUGHTER. 

He  placed  the  pistol  on  the  tahle  within  reach  of  his  hand,  and  drew 
forth  the  last  communication  she  had  sent  him. 

"  Tell  me,  Louise,  what  this  production  means  ?  Have  you  indeed  given 
up  all  intention  of  fulfilling  the  troth  so  often  and  so  solemnly  sworn  ?  What 
do  you  mean  by  the  words,  '  /  l-now  how  it  was  obtained,1  referring  to  the 
independence  I  offered  to  share  with  you  ?" 

There  was  a  violent  effort  to  preserve  his  calmness,  but  his  voice  qui- 
vered with  the  intensity  of  his  emotion,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  her  like  a 
devouring  flame,  as  he  fixed  them  on  her  whitening  features. 

How  Louise  wished  some  one  would  come  in ;  but  no  footsteps  approached. 
She  feared  to  cry  out,  lest  the  excited  being  before  her  should  destroy  her 
before  assistance  could  reach  her ;  and  she  read  that  in  his  face  which 
assured  her  that  he  was  desperate  enough  for  any  crime. 

She  did  not  reply,  and  he  held  the  lines  so  close  to  her  face  as  almost  to 
touch  it,  as  he  again  demanded — "Your  meaning,  your  meaning?  I  must 
know  if  you  really  are  aware  of  all  I  have  dared  for  your  sake  ;  or  is  it  a 
pitiable  ruse  to  afford  you  excuse  for  your  most  heartless  and  unwomanly 
conduct  toward  me." 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  break  with  you,  Victor,"  she  pleaded.  "  Your  own 
acts  have  placed  a  barrier  between  us,  as  I  have  there  stated." 

"  My  acts  ?  What  are  they  ?  How  did  you  know  them  ?  Speak — tell 
me,  what  could  I  do  that  would  render  me  unworthy  of  you,  false  and 
hollow  piece  of  deceit  that  I  now  know  you  to  be.  My  conscience !  I  have 
none,  I  tell  you.  It  was  buried  long  since  in  the  grave  of  principle.  I  have 
become  a  terror  and  a  loathing  to  myself,  and  all  through  you.  And  now 
do  you  fancy  for  one  moment  that  I  will  ever  permit  Nevin  to  snatch  you 
from  me  ?  Tell  me  what  you  know,  or  my  pistol  shall  at  once  do  its  predes- 
tined work ;  its  fellow  is  ready  to  release  me  from  the  consequences,  and  I 
have  no  compunction  in  using  them." 


380  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Again  he  placed  his  hand  upon  the  weapon,  and  Louise  felt  that  boldness 
alone  could  now  save  her.  She  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  heart  to  still  its 
rapid  beating,  and  said : 

"  Listen  to  me,  Victor,  and  do  not  endeavor  to  frighten  me  thus,  for  I 
cannot  believe  that  your  threats  are  made  in  earnest.  You  have  committed 
a  fearful  crime  for  my  sake.  I  pity  you  ;  I  forgive  you ;  and  oh,  Victor,  I 
love  you  still.  Do  not  be  so  harsh — so  cruel ;  you  break  my  heart  by  acting 
thus." 

At  the  allusion  to  his  crime,  Victor  shuddered,  and  cast  a  fearful  glance 
around.  He  spoke  in  a  whisper,  every  tone  of  which  seemed  to  vibrate 
with  horror. 

"  The  dead  gibbered  around  me  ;  the  vaults  seemed  lighted  with  flames 
from  the  Inferno  ;  but  I  would  not  be  balked.  Ha !  look  here  ;  see  what  I 
won  by  my  perseverance." 

He  drew  forth  a  casket  from  his  pocket,  and,  opening  it,  the  flash  of 
diamonds  of  singular  lustre  and  purity,  was  seen.  A  necklace  of  rose 
diamonds,  of  large  size,  he  drew  forth,  and  said,  with  a  ghastly  smile  : 

"See  how  I  can  afford  to  deck  you,  Louise." 

Before  she  was  aware  of  his  intention,  he  threw  it  over  her  bare  neck. 
The  touch  of  the  gems,  which  had  so  lately  lain  in  contact  with  the  dead,  over- 
powered the  little  fortitude  Louise  retained,  and  she  sunk  back  insensible  on 
the  crimson  velvet  fauteuil  in  which  she  was  seated. 

Without  heeding  this,  Victor  proceeded  in  his  task.  He  next  drew  forth 
an  ornament  for  the  head,  in  the  shape  of  a  coronet ;  this  he  carefully 
placed,  then  clasped  the  rings  in  the  ears,  the  bracelets  on  her  arms,  and 
then  lifting  the  nerveless  hand,  he  placed  in  it  the  miniature  sceptre,  of 
which  Nevin  had  spoken. 

When  all  was  done,  he  stood  off  and  viewed  the  effect.  The  delicate 
and  colorless  features  of  the  insensible  girl,  contrasted  with  the  crimson 
background  against  which  she  reclined,  looked  pure  as  marble.  Her  even- 
ing dress,  of  a  pale  rose  tint,  was  cut  so  as  to  leave  the  fair  neck  and  rounded 
arms  partially  bared ;  and  the  blaze  of  the  jewels  in  the  lamp-light  might, 
at  a  first  glance,  have  induced  one  to  believe  that  she  was  in  grand 
toilette  for  some  gay  assemblage ;  but  a  second  look  at  the  fixed  features 
and  closed  eyes  would  have  startled  the  beholder  with  the  conviction 
that  death  was  only  masked  with  this  semblance  of  splendor. 

Victor  contemplated  her  in  silence  several  moments,  then  he  kneeled 
before  her,  and  said: 


ANN    ELIZA    DUPUY.  381 

"My  queen  of  love  and  beauty,  once — now  my  queen  of  death — most 
royally  art  thou  decked  for  the  sacrifice!  Ha!  ha!  will  not  Nevin  learn 
that  his  gems  are  well  bestowed?— even  on  her  to  whom  he  would  have 
given  them  himself.  But  I  am  beforehand  with  him.  I  have  the  advan- 
tage this  time,  and  I  mean  to  keep  it." 

Ee  kissed  the  hand  of  the  insensible  girl,  her  lifeless  lips,  her  brow, 
again  and  again.  Then  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  second  pistol,  and 
lifting  the  one  on  the  table  he  pointed  it  toward  the  heart  of  Louise. 
The  other  he  placed  where  his  hand  could  grasp  it  the  instant  he  dropped 
the  first. 

Then  the  madman  paused ;  and  fixing  his  eyes  adoringly  upon  the  face 
he  had  so  worshipped,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty  : 

"  Forgive  me,  darling,  best  loved  one.  I  take  you  from  a  world  that  can 
only  bring  sorrow  to  your  heart,  and  a  blight  upon  your  loveliness.  I  will 
not  mar  your  beauty,  my  flower  of  Paradise  ;  through  your  heart  the  mes- 
senger of  release  shall  go,  and  you  will  not  even  feel  the  pain  of  death." 

He  raised  himself  on  one  knee  and  deliberately  took  aim  at  the  left  side 
of  the  defenceless  girl,  who  had  not  yet  exhibited  the  slightest  sign  of 
returning  consciousness.  Not  a  muscle  trembled,  as  he  slowly  raised  his 
finger  to  touch  the  deadly  tigger. 

In  another  instant  Louise  would  have  been  beyond  help,  when  a  swift 
step  came  noiselessly  over  the  carpet,  and  a  firm  hand  dashed  up  the  weapon, 
with  the  exclamation : 

"  Madman !     What  would  you  do  ?" 

Victor  struggled  violently,  for  he  recognized  the  voice  of  his  rival,  and  he 
endeavored  to  turn  the  weapon  against  him.  Nevin  wrenched  his  arm  with 
a  grasp  of  iron ;  as  the  pistol  came  in  contact  with  the  body  of  the  hapless 
young  man,  it  exploded,  and  the  meditated  assassin  received  the  load  in  his 
own  heart. 

HUGUENOT   EXILES. 

M.  de  Montour  prided  himself  on  the  beauty  of  his  horses ;  and  the  pair 
in  the  carriage  were  spirited  bays,  which  had  not  long  been  subjected  to  the 
constraint  of  harness.  He  was  about  to  open  the  door  to  alight  with  his 
daughter,  and  walk  over  this  dangerous  place,  when  the  horses  took  fright 
at  some  object  in  the  road,  and  reared  and  plunged  so  violently  that  the 
driver  lost  all  control  over  them.     The  man  jumped  from  his  seat  in  time  to 


382  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

save  himself,  as  the  unwieldy  vehicle  made  a  violent  lurch  toward  the  preci- 
pice. 

The  traveller,  whose  sudden  appearance  on  the  road  had  frightened  them, 
threw  himself  from  his  mule,  and  seizing  the  bridle,  made  violent  efforts  to 
restrain  their  downward  career ;  but  the  impulse  already  given  them  was  too 
great.  To  save  himself,  he  was  compelled  to  release  his  grasp  and  throw  him- 
self violently  backward,  while  the  unruly  steeds  and  the  heavy  coach,  with  its 
helpless  occupants,  went  crashing  down  the  precipice. 

A  few  moments  of  breathless  horror  followed ;  no  cry  came  from  below ; 
and  the  two  men  gazed  on  each  other  with  pallid  cheeks.  The  driver  at 
length  said : 

"  I'm  afeared  they  are  killed,  but  the  devil  himself  could  not  a'  held  them 
horses." 

"Come  with  me,"  said  the  stranger,  a  respectable-looking  citizen; 
"  there  is  a  pathway  down  the  ravine,  let  us  look  after  these  unhappy 
people." 

With  some  difficulty  they  descended  the  precipitous  path,  and  stood 
beside  the  shattered  carriage.  The  horses  had  been  too  severely  injured  by 
the  fall  to  move  ;  and  M.  de  Montour  had  extricated  himself  from  the  ruins 
in  a  stunned  and  bewildered  condition,  which  rendered  him  oblivious  even 
of  the  state  of  his  daughter. 

Bertha,  pale,  and  apparently  dying,  lay  with  her  head  in  contact  with  the 
rock  against  which  it  had  been  dashed  with  such  violence  as  to  produce  con- 
cussion of  the  brain ;  there  was  no  external  wound,  save  that  her  right 
hand,  which  she  seemed  instinctively  to  have  raised  to  protect  her  face,  was 
completely  crushed. 

The  stranger  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  and  as  the  fading  twilight  fell  upon 
her  features,  he  recognized  her.  Taking  the  bleeding  hand  in  his  own,  he 
solemnly  said  : 

"  Behold  the  retributive  justice  of  God.  This  hand,  so  lately  raised  in 
sacrilegious  outrage,  will  never  again  know  its  own  cunning." 

By  this  time  the  unhappy  father  began  to  recover  sufficiently  to  under- 
stand what  passed  around  him.  With  a  cry  of  anguish  he  threw  himself 
toward  the  nerveless  form  the  stranger  sustained,  and  took  her  in  his  own 
arms.  For  the  first  time,  for  years,  human  feeling  was  aroused  in  the  breast 
of  this  man  who  had  so  hardly  dealt  with  others,  and  he  comprehended  what 
it  was  to  suffer.  In  his  prosperity  he  bad  forgotten  that  the  arrows  of  mis- 
fortune could  be  launched  at  himself;  and  in  his  egotistic  love  for  his  daugh- 


ANN    ELIZA    DUPUY.  383 

ter,  he  had  almost  ceased  to  remember  that  she  was  of  mortal  mold,  and 
subject,  like  others,  to  accident  or  death. 

"  She  is  not  dead,"  he  sternly  said.  "  The  Virgin  will  not  permit  death 
to  be  sent  to  one  who  this  day  so  signally  served  her  cause.  Oh !  holy 
mother  of  God,  listen  to  the  supplications  of  thy  faithful  follower :  let  thy 
saints  plead  for  mercy  to  be  shown  to  me.  Save  my  child — save  her,  I  pray 
thee,  and  I  promise  a  votive  offering  worthy  of  thy  acceptance." 

"Poor  miserable  fanatic!"  exclaimed  the  stranger  compassionately. 
'•  One  prayer  to  God  were  worth  a  lifetime  of  such  supplications.  Praying 
to  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar  cannot  save  your  daughter,  unless  measures 
are  taken  to  gain  speedy  assistance  for  her." 

"  Why  is  not  something  done,  then  ?"  asked  the  bewildered  father.  "  She 
must  be  taken  to  the  chateau  without  loss  of  time.  Oh,  what  can  be 
done?" 

"  The  driver  can  take  my  mule  and  ride  to  Nismes  for  such  assistance  as 
we  need.     I  will  remain  with  you  until  it  arrives." 

The  Sieur  de  Montour  acquiesced  in  this  arrangement,  and  with  alacrity 
the  driver  obeyed  the  command.  The  energetic  stranger  then  sought  among 
the  ruins  of  the  carriage,  from  which  he  drew  the  cushions,  and  arranged  them 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  afford  a  resting-place  for  the  insensible  girl.  Life 
still  palpitated  in  her  frame,  and  lent  a  feeble  motion  to  her  heart,  but  no 
sign  of  returning  consciousness  was  yet  visible,  and  the  compassionate  eye 
that  scanned  her  features  in  the  gathering  twilight,  saw  that  intelligence 
would  never  again  beam  from  those  orbs,  over  whose  closed  lids  a  faint  pur- 
ple hue  was  already  spreading.  At  length  M.  de  Montour  looked  up  at  the 
earnest  face  of  his  companion,  and  asked  : 

"  Who  are  you  ?     How  did  you  come  hither  so  opportunely?" 

The  stranger  sternly  replied : 

"lam  one  of  those  who  stood  tamely  by  to-day  and  saw  the  holy  temple 
of  God  denied  and  destroyed,  while  I  said  in  my  heart,  '  In  his  own  good 
time  he  will  avenge  this  sacrilegious  impiety ;'  but  I  little  expected  that  one 
of  the  prominent  actors  in  the  scene  would  so  soon  meet  the  retribution  her 
unwomanly  act  merited.  God  forgive  me  for  speaking  thus ;  for  she  lies 
there,  stricken  and  dying,  and  I,  a  miserable  fellow  worm,  should  not  judge 
her  harshly." 

All  the  old  haughtiness  of  M.  de  Montour  returned  as  he  listened,  and  he 
said  : 

"  She  is  not  dying — she  shall  not  die ;   and  you  were  on  our  path— you 


384  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

caused  this  calamity  of  which  you  dare  to  speak  as  a  judgment  from 
heaven." 

"I  as  sincerely  believe  it  to  be  such,  as  I  believe  in  the  mercy  of  God.  I 
was  proceeding  quietly  on  my  way,  when  your  horses  overtook  me ;  and 
why  they  should  have  reared  at  the  sight  of  a  peaceful  traveller,  I  know  not, 
unless  it  was  for  the  special  purpose  of  bringing  to  pass  the  punishment  that 
surely  finds  its  victim.  Look  at  that  hand,  and  then  ask  yourself  if  chance 
alone  produced  this  catastrophe." 

There  was  a  stern  grandeur  in  the  manner  of  the  speaker,  and  in  him  the 
Sieur  de  Montour  recognized  one  of  the  many  strong  souls  who,  in  those 
days,  struggled  against  the  persecutions  they  were  compelled  to  bear,  with 
a  fanaticism  equal  to  that  which  oppressed  them.  He  replied,  with 
asperity  : 

"  Know  that  if  death  be  sent  to  my  child,  I  have  faith  to  believe  that  the 
service  performed  by  her  this  day  merited  being  taken  into  heaven  itself  to 
receive  her  reward." 


Then  the  anguish  of  the  unhappy  father  took  another  phase.  He  had 
summoned  the  priests  to  perform  the  last  rites  of  the  church,  and  with  fran- 
tic eagerness  he  implored  the  surgeon  to  restore  consciousness  to  her  for  a 
brief  space,  that  she  might  join  in  them.  To  him  it  was  an  inexpressible 
horror  that  she  should  die  before  extreme  unction  had  been  administered. 
"When  convinced  that  it  was  impossible,  he  made  a  sign  to  the  priests  to 
perform  their  office  without  delay,  and  the  ceremony  was  at  once  com- 
menced. 

The  father  knelt  on  a  cushion  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  with  his  eyes  im- 
movably fastened  on  the  features  on  which  the  seal  of  death  was  rapidly 
stamping  itself.  He  prayed  for  a  sign  that  all  was  well  with  the  departing 
spirit ;  miracles  were  of  common  occurrence  in  the  church — why  should  not 
one  be  performed  in  his  favor  ? 

The  officiating  priest,  imbued  with  all  the  craft  of  his  calling,  was  quite 
willing  to  lend  his  aid  to  produce  such  a  delusion.  As  he  leaned  over  the 
couch  to  anoint  the  dying  girl  with  the  holy  chrism,  he  dexterously  lifted 
the  crushed  hand,  and  held  it  an  instant  before  her  father.  Starting  back 
with  an  appearance  of  reverential  awe,  he  said  : 

"  Behold,  my  son  !  A  miracle  has  been  vouchsafed  by  the  blessed  Mother 
of  God !     See !  that  hand,  which  so  lately  was  lifted  in  holy  service  to  the 


ANN    ELIZA    DUPUY.  385 

church,  is  permitted  to  give  you  the  assurance  for  which  you  so  earnestly 
supplicate.     Your  daughter  will  receive  her  glorious  reward." 

Again  the  maimed  hand  sunk  heavily  on  the  coverlet,  and  at  the  same 
instant  the  last  breath  of  Bertha  de  Montour  passed  from  her  lips.  Calmed 
by  this  assurance,  the  father  arose,  and  in  the  sternness  of  his  fanatical  faith, 
felt  enabled  to  bear  the  sudden  calamity  which  had  overtaken  him. 


AMELIA  B.  WELBT. 

Amelia  B.  Coppuck  was  born  on  the  3d  of  February,  1819, 
in  the  small  village  of  St.  Michael's,  in  Maryland,  whence  she 
was  removed,  when  an  infant,  to  Baltimore.  In  or  near  this 
city  she  continued  to  reside  until  1834,  and  then  sought  a  home 
in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  she  remained  until  her  death. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  she  contributed  her  first  poem  to 
the  "Loirisville  Journal,"'  under  the  name  of  "Amelia."  She 
is,  doubtless,  much  indebted  to  George  D.  Prentice,  the  peren- 
nial poet  and  wit,  as  well  as  editor,  for  a  careful  development 
of  her  poetic  faculty,  and  a  fair  presentation  to  the  public  ;  yet 
the  sweet  flowing  resonance  of  her  verse,  instinct  with  natural 
emotion  and  true  womanly  delicacy,  caught  the  popidar  ear, 
and  won  its  way  to  warm  hearts,  by  a  charm  all  its  own. 

There  was  never,  perhaps,  a  more  marked  instance  of  purely 
native  poetic  facility,  than  we  find  in  this  writer.  She  had 
passed  through  no  regular  course  of  education  or  study,  and 
her  range  of  reading  was  neither  wide  nor  carefully  indicated ; 
yet  her  rhythm  is  faultless,  her  construction  graceful,  her  style 
finished,  and  her  imagery  as  fresh  and  varied  as  the  grand 
natural  scenery  which  surrounded  her  in  childhood. 

She  seems  to  have  impressed  the  critics  variously.  A 
southern  writer* — to  whose  discriminating  sketch,  originally 
published  in  a  Methodist  magazine  at  Cincinnati,  we  are 
indebted  for  our  fullest  knowledge  of  Mrs.  "Welby — says  of  her : 

*  Ben  Cassedav. 
3SC 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY.  387 

"  She  did  not  reach  the  higher  forms  of  art,  nor  did  she  attempt 
them.  Her  song  was  a  simple  measure,  learned  of  the  trill  of 
the  brooklet,  of  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  or  of  the  deep,  solemn 
murmur  of  the  ocean."  It  was  Mr.  Griswold's  opinion  that  her 
poems  showed  "  few  indications  of  creative  power."  "  She 
walks  the  temple  of  the  muses,"  he  writes,  "  with  no  children 
of  the  imagination  ;  but  her  fancy  is  lively,  discriminating,  and 
informed  by  a  minute  and  intelligent  observation  of  nature. 
Her  sentiment  has  the  relation  to  passion  which  her  fancy  sus- 
tains to  the  imagination.  We  are  sure  of  the  presence  of  a 
womanly  spirit,  reverencing  the  sanctities  and  immunities  of 
life,  and  sympathizing  with  whatever  addresses  the  sense  of 
beauty."  While  Poe,  the  usually  clear-sighted,  uncompromis- 
ing analyst,  warms  into  unwonted  enthusiasm,  declaring  that 
"  She  has  nearly  all  the  imagination  of  Maria  del  Occidente, 
with  more  refined  taste ;  and  nearly  all  the  passion  of  Mrs.  Nor- 
ton, with  a  nicer  ear,  and,  what  is  surprising,  equal  art.  Very 
few  American  poets  are  at  all  comparable  with  her,  in  the 
true  poetic  sense." 

In  1838,  our  author  married  Mr.  George  B.  Welby,  a  mer- 
chant of  Louisville,  and  a  gentleman  every  way  worthy  of  her. 
The  only  offspring  of  this  union  was  a  son,  born  two  months 
before  the  death  of  Mrs.  Welby,  in  1852. 

The  first  edition  of  poems  by  this  writer  was  published  at 
Boston,  in  18±5 — a  small  octavo  volume,  whose  popularity  was 
so  great,  that  in  a  few  months  the  modest  young  poet  was 
astonished  with  overtures  from  some  of  the  leading  publishers 
of  the  country,  for  a  new  edition.  The  Appletons,  proving  suc- 
cessful competitors,  have  since  issued  fifteen  editions,  and  the 
demand  still  continues. 

It  is  only  in  the  easy,  rippling  current  of  Mrs.  Welby's  cor- 
respondence, that  we  get  any  clue  to  her  style  as  a  prose  writer. 
The  sketch  to  which  we  have  already  referred,  furnishes  us  with 


388  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

the  following  specimen,  which  is  thus  introduced:  "She  had 
been  visited  at  her  residence  by  a  party  of  gay  masqueraders, 
among  whom  was  an  intimate  friend,  costumed  as  a  Turk,  and 
bearing  the  euphonious  sobriquet  of  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassan. 
On  the  day  after  this  visit,  Mrs.  Welby  received  from  this 
pseudo  pacha  a  note  of  farewell,  written  in  the  redundant  style 
of  the  Orientals,  to  which  she  thus  replied  : 

Although  a  stranger  to  the  graceful  style  of  Oriental  greeting,  Amelia, 
the  daughter  of  the  Christian,  would  send  to  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassan,  ere 
he  departs  from  the  midst  of  her  people,  a  few  words  in  token  of  farewell, 
and  also  in  acknowledgment  of  the  flowery  epistle  sent  by  the  gallant  Ben 
Khorassan  to  the  '•  Bulbul  of  this  Giaour  Land,"  as  he  is  pleased,  in  the 
polite  language  of  his  country,  to  designate  the  humblest  of  his  admirers ! 
Like  the  sudden  splendor  of  a  dazzling  meteor  was  the  brief  sojourn  of  the 
noble  Ben  Khorassan,  in  the  presence  of  the  "  Bulbul."  He  came  before 
her  uniting  in  his  aspect  the  majesty  of  a  god  of  old  with  the  mien  of  a 
mortal — graceful  in  his  step,  winning  in  his  mood,  and  terrible  as  an  array 
with  banners.  The  song  of  the  "  Bulbul  "  was  hushed  ;  the  words  of  greet- 
ing died  on  her  lip  ;  but  now  that  the  mightiest  of  the  mighty  has  withdrawn 
from  her  dazzled  gaze  the  glory  of  his  presence,  the  trembling  "  Bulbul  "  lifts 
her  head  once  more,  like  a  drooping  flower  oppressed  by  the  rays  of  the 
noon-tide  sun,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  gloom  that  overshadows  her,  recalls 
to  mind  every  word  and  look  of  the  gallant  Ben  Khorassan,  till  her  thoughts 
of  him  arise  like  stars  upon  the  horizon  of  her  memory,  lighting  up  the 
gloom  of  his  absence,  and  glittering  upon  the  waters  of  the  fountain  of  her 
heart,  whose  every  murmur  is  attuned  to  the  music  of  his  memory.  But 
the  bark  of  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassan  floats  upon  the  waters  with  her  white 
wings  spread  for  the  clime  of  the  Crescent.  Her  brilliant  pennon  streams 
from  the  strand,  and  the  words  of  the  "  Bulbul  "  must  falter  into  a  farewell. 
May  the  favoring  gales  of  Paradise,  fragrant  as  the  breath  of  Houris,  fill  the 
silken  sails  of  Ben  Khorassan,  and  waft  him  onward  to  his  native  groves  of 
citron  and  of  myrtle,  waking  thoughts  in  his  bosom  fresh  and  fragrant  as 
the  flowers  that  cluster  in  his  clime!  Thus  prays  Amelia,  the  daughter  of 
the  Christian,  and  the  "  Bulbul  of  the  Giaour  Land."     Farewell ! 

It  is  a  singular  and  interesting  fact,  that  during  the  last  four 


AMELIA    B.   WELBY.  380 

years  of  Mrs.  Welby's  life,  she  ceased  almost  entirely  to  write  in 
verse.  As  her  womanhood  and  soulhood  deepened,  she  perhaps 
chafed,  like  Mrs.  Warfield,  in  the  silken  harness  of  rhythm,  and 
was  casting  about  for  a  broader  outlet  of  utterance.  Had  she 
lived  to  define  the 

"  Sea-change 


Into  something  new  and  strange," 

that  seemed  to  be  foreshadowed  in  these  years  of  abeyance,  we 
might  have  had  her  gushing,  poetic  nature  merged,  not  in  a 
"  Household  of  Bouverie  " — only  the  author  of  the  "  Legend  of 
the  Indian  Chamber"  could  have  created  that — but  in  some 
romance  alive  with  luminous  revealings  of  herself. 

A  change  came;  a  change  not  only  of  utterance  and  of 
being,  but  a  transition  to  a  sphere,  where  being  is  full  utterance, 
and  utterance  is  always  harmony. 

A  poem,  written  by  herself,  in  tender  tribute  to  the  memory 
of  a  sister  poet,  is  her  most  fitting  requiem  : 

She  has  passed,  like  a  bird  from  the  minstrel  throng, 
She  has  gone  to  the  land  where  the  lovely  belong! 
Her  place  Is  bush'd  by  her  lover's  side, 
Yet  his  heart  is  full  of  his  fair  young  bride ; 
The  hopes  of  his  spirit  are  crush'd  and  bowed 
As  he  thinks  of  his  love  in  her  long  white  shroud ; 
For  the  fragrant  sighs  of  her  perfumed  breath 
Were  kissed  from  her  lips  by  his  rival — Death. 

Cold  is  her  bosom,  her  thin  white  arms 
All  mutely  crossed  o'er  its  icy  charms, 
As  she  lies  like  a  statue  of  Grecian  art, 
With  a  marble  brow  and  a  cold,  hushed  heart ; 
Her  locks  are  bright,  but  their  gloss  is  hid  ; 
Her  eye  is  sunk  'neath  its  waxen  lid ; 
And  thus  she  lies  in  her  narrow  hall — 
Our  fair  young  minstrel — the  loved  of  all. 


390  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Light  as  a  bird's  were  her  springing  feet, 

Her  heart  as  joyous,  her  song  as  sweet ; 

Yet  never  again  shall  that  heart  be  stirred 

With  its  glad  wild  songs  like  a  singing  bird : 

Ne'er  again  shall  the  strains  be  sung. 

That  in  sweetness  dropped  from  her  silver  tongue  ; 

The  music  is  o'er,  and  Death's  cold  dart 

Hath  broken  the  spell  of  that  free,  glad  heart. 

Often  at  eve,  when  the  breeze  is  still, 
And  the  moon  floats  up  by  the  distant  Mil, 
As  I  wander  alone  'mid  the  summer  bowers, 
And  wreathe  my  locks  with  the  sweet  wild  flowers ; 
I  will  think  of  the  time  when  she  lingered  there, 
With  her  mild  blue  eyes,  and  her  long,  fair  hair; 
I  will  treasure  her  name  in  my  bosom-core  ; 
But  my  heart  is  sad — I  can  sing  no  more. 


THE   GREEN   MOSSY  BANK  WHERE  THE  BUTTER-CUPS  GREW. 

Oh,  my  thoughts  are  away  where  my  infancy  flew, 
Near  the  green  mossy  bank  where  the  butter-cups  grew, 
Where  the  bright  silver  fountain  eternally  played, 
First  laughing  in  sunshine,  then  singing  in  shade  ; 
There  oft  in  my  childhood  I've  wandered  in  play, 
Flinging  up  the  cool  drops  of  the  light-falling  spray, 
Till  my  small  naked  feet  were  all  bathed  in  bright  dew, 
As  I  played  on  the  bank  where  the  butter-cups  grew. 

How  softly  that  green  bank  sloped  down  from  the  hill 
To  the  spot  where  the  fountain  grew  suddenly  still ! 
How  cool  was  the  shadow  the  long  branches  gave, 
As  they  hung  from  the  willow  and  dipped  in  the  wave. 
And  then  each  pale  lily,  that  slept  on  the  stream, 
Rose  and  fell  with  the  wave,  as  if  stirred  by  a  dream ! 
While  my  home  'mid  the  vine-leaves  rose  soft  on  my  view, 
As  I  played  on  the  bank  where  the  butter-cups  grew. 


AMELIA    B.WELBY.  391 

The  beautiful  tilings !  how  I  watched  them  unfold, 

Till  they  lifted  their  delicate  vases  of  gold ! 

Oh,  never  a  spot  since  those  days  have  I  seen 

With  leaves  of  such  freshness  and  flowers  of  such  sheen ! 

How  glad  was  my  spirit !  for  then  there  was  naught 

To  burden  its  wing,  save  some  beautiful  thought 

Breaking  up  from  its  depths  with  each  wild  wind  that  blew 

O'er  the  green  mossy  bank  where  the  butter-cups  grew. 

The  paths  I  have  trod  I  would  quickly  retrace, 

Could  I  win  back  the  gladness,  that  looked  from  my  face 

As  I  cooled  my  warm  lip  in  that  fountain,  I  love 

With  a  spirit  as  pure  as  the  wing  of  a  dove — 

Could  I  wander  again  where  my  forehead  was  starr'd 

With  the  beauty  that  dwelt  in  my  bosom  unmarr'd. 

And,  calm  as  a  child  in  the  starlight  and  dew, 

Fall  asleep  on  the  bank  where  the  butter-cups  grew. 


MUSINGS. 

I  wandered  out  one  summer-night, 

'Twas  when  my  years  were  few, 
The  wind  was  singing  in  the  light, 

And  I  was  singing  too ; 
The  sunshine  lay  upon  the  hill, 

The  shadow  in  the  vale, 
And  here  and  there  a  leaping  rill 

Was  laughing  on  the  gale. 

One  fleecy  cloud  upon  the  air 

Was  all  that  met  my  eyes ; 
It  floated  like  an  angel  there 

Between  me  and  the  skies : 
I  clapped  my  hands  and  warbled  wild, 

As  here  and  there  I  flew, 
For  I  was  but  a  careless  child 

And  did  as  children  do. 


392  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  waves  came  dancing  o'er  the  sea 

In  bright  and  glittering  bands ; 
Like  little  children  wild  with  glee, 

They  linked  their  dimpled  hands — 
They  linked  their  hands,  but,  ere  I  caught 

Their  sprinkled  drops  of  dew, 
They  kissed  my  feet,  and  quick  as  thought, 

Away  the  ripples  flew. 


The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea ; 
For  every  wave  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace, 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 


The  young  moon  too,  with  upturned  sides, 

Her  mirrored  beauty  gave, 
And  as  a  bark  at  anchor  rides, 

She  rode  upon  the  wave ; 
The  sea  was  like  the  heaven  above, 

As  perfect  and  as  whole, 
Save  that  it  seemed  to  thrill  with  love 

As  thrills  the  immortal  soul. 


The  leaves,  by  spirit-voices  stirred, 

Made  murmurs  on  the  air, 
Low  murmurs  that  my  spirit  heard 

And  answered  with  a  prayer; 
For  'twas  upon  that  dewy  sod, 

Beside  the  moaning  seas, 
I  learned  at  first  to  worship  God 

And  sing  such  strains  as  these. 


AMELIA    B.   WELBV.  393 

The  flowers,  all  folded  to  their  dreams, 

Where  bowed  in  slumber  free 
By  breezy  hills  and  murmuring  streams, 

Where'er  they  chanced  to  be ; 
No  guilty  tears  had  they  to  weep, 

No  sins  to  be  forgiven ; 
They  closed  their  leaves  and  went  to  sleep 

'Neath  the  blue  eye  of  heaven. 


No  costly  robes  upon  them  shone, 

No  jewels  from  the  seas, 
Yet  Solomon,  upon  his  throne, 

Was  ne'er  arrayed  like  these ; 
And  just  as  free  from  guilt  and  art, 

Were  lovely  human  flowers, 
Ere  sorrow  set  her  bleeding  heart 

On  this  fair  world  of  ours. 


I  heard  the  laughing  wind  behind 

A-playing  with  my  hair  ; 
The  breezy  fingers  of  the  wind — 

How  cool  and  moist  they  were! 
I  heard  the  night-bird  warbling  o'er 

Its  soft  enchanting  strain  ; 
I  never  heard  such  sounds  before, 

And  never  shall  again. 

Then  wherefore  weave  such  strains  as  these 

And  sing  them  day  by  day, 
When  every  bird  upon  the  breeze 

Can  sing  a  sweeter  lay ! 
I'd  give  the  world  for  their  sweet  art, 

The  simple,  the  divine — 
I'd  give  the  world  to  melt  one  heart 

As  they  have  melted  mine. 


394  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


TO  THE  SKY-LARK. 


Thou  little  bird,  thou  lov'st  to  dwell 

Beneath  the  summer  leaves ! 
The  sunlight  round  thy  mossy  cell 

A  golden  halo  weaves ; 
And  the  sweet  dews,  where'er  we  pass, 
Like  living  diamonds  gem  the  grass, 

And  round  the  mossy  eaves 
The  twittering  swallow  circling  flies, 
As  happy  as  the  laughing  skies. 

Soft  as  a  bride,  the  rosy  dawn 

From  dewy  sleep  doth  rise, 
And,  bathed  in  blushes,  hath  withdrawn 

The  mantle  from  her  eyes ; 
And,  with  her  orbs  dissolved  in  dew, 
Bends  like  an  angel  softly  through 

The  blue-pavilioned  skies. 
Then  up,  and  pour  thy  mellow  lay, 
To  greet  the  young  and  radiant  day ! 

Hark !  now  with  low  and  fluttering  start, 

The  sky-lark  soars  above, 
And  from  her  full  melodious  heart 

She  pours  her  strains  of  love  ; 
And  now  her  quivering  wings  fling  back 
The  golden  light  that  floods  her  track, 

Now  scarcely  seems  to  move, 
But  floats  awhile  on  waveless  wings, 
Then  soars  away,  and,  soaring,  sings. 

Bird  of  the  pure  and  dewy  morn ! 

How  soft  thy  heavenward  lay 
Floats  up,  where  light  and  life  are  born 

Around  the  rosy  day ! 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY.  395 

And,  as  the  balm  that  fills  the  hour 
Lies  soft  upon  each  waving  flower, 

The  happy  wind  at  play 
Tells,  as  its  voice  goes  laughing  by, 
The  lark  is  singing  in  the  sky. 


'When  shall  thy  fearless  wing  find  rest, 

Bird  of  the  dewy  hours  ? 
When  wilt  thou  seek  thy  little  nest, 

Close  hid  among  the  flowers? 
Not  till  the  bright  clouds,  one  by  one, 
Are  marshalled  round  the  setting  sun, 

In  heaven's  celestial  bowers, 
Shall  the  old  forest  round  thee  fling 
Its  mournful  shades,  O  lonely  thing ! 


Lonely !  and  did  I  call  thee  lone  ? 

'Twas  but  a  careless  word  : 
The  round  blue  heaven  is  all  thine  own, 

O  free  and  happy  bird ! 
Wherever  laughs  a  singing  rill, 
Or  points  to  heaven  a  verdant  hill, 

Thy  waving  wing  hath  stirred ; 
For  all  sweet  things,  where'er  they  be, 
Are  like  familiar  friends  to  thee. 


Could  I.  O  living  lute  of  heaven  ! 

But  learn  to  act  thy  part, 
And  use  the  gift  so  freely  given, 

That  floods  my  inmost  heart ; 
Each  morn,  my  melting  strains  of  love 
Should  rise  like  thine  to  Him  above, 

Who  made  thee  what  thou  art, 
And  spread  abroad  each  waving  tree, 
For  thee.  O  little  bird  !  for  thee. 


396  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  shall  the  poet  envy  thee, 
Bird  of  the  quivering  wing, 
Whose  soul  immortal,  swift,  and  free, 

Should  ever  soar  and  sing? 
Predestined  for  a  loftier  flight, 
The  spirit,  filled  with  heavenly  light, 
From  this  cold  eartli  shall  spring, 
And  soar  where  thou  canst  never  roam, 
Bird  of  the  hlue  and  hreezy  dome. 

Oh !  if  our  hearts  were  never  stirred, 

By  harsher  sounds  than  these — 
The  low,  sweet  singing  of  a  bird, 

The  murmur  of  the  breeze — 
How  soft  would  glide  our  fleeting  hours, 
Blessed  as  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers, 

And  calm  as  summer  seas ! 
Linked  hand  in  hand  with  Love  and  Hope, 
We'd  wander  down  life's  flowery  slope. 


THE  FREED  BIRD. 

Thy  cage  is  opened,  bird  !  too  well  I  love  thee 
To  bar  the  sunny  things  of  earth  from  thee ; 

A  whole  broad  heaven  of  blue  lies  calm  above  thee, 
The  green-wood  waves  beneath,  and  thou  art  free ; 

These  slender  wires  shall  prison  thee  no  more— 

Up,  bird!  and  'mid  the  clouds  thy  thrilling  music  pour. 

Away !  away !  the  laughing  waters,  playing, 
Break  on  the  fragrant  shore  in  ripples  blue, 

And  the  green  leaves  unto  the  breeze  are  laying 
Their  shining  edges,  fringed  with  drops  of  dew  ; 

And,  here  and  there,  a  wild  flower  lifts  its  head 

Refreshed  with  sudden  life  from  many  a  sunbeam  shed. 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY  397 

How  sweet  thy  voice  will  sound !  for  o'er  yon  river 

The  wing  of  silence,  like  a  dream,  is  laid, 
And  naught  is  heard  save  where  the  wood-boughs  quiver, 

Making  rich  spots  of  trembling  light  and  shade. 
And  a  new  rapture  thy  wild  spirit  fills, 
For  joy  is  on  the  breeze,  and  morn  upon  the  hills. 


Now,  like  the  aspen,  plays  each  quivering  feather 
Of  thy  swift  pinion,  bearing  thee  along, 

Up,  where  the  morning  stars  once  sang  together, 
To  pour  the  fullness  of  thine  own  rich  song ; 

And  now  thou'rt  mirrored  to  my  dazzled  view, 

A  little  dusky  speck  amid  a  world  of  blue. 


Yet  I  will  shade  mine  eye  and  still  pursue  thee. 

As  thou  dost  melt  in  soft  ethereal  air, 
Till  angel-ones,  sweet  bird,  will  bend  to  view  thee, 

And  cease  their  hymns  awhile  thine  own  to  share  ; 
And  there  thou  art,  with  light  clouds  round  thee  furled, 
Just  poised  beneath  yon  vault,  that  arches  o'er  the  world. 


A  free  wild  spirit  unto  thee  is  given. 

Bright  minstrel  of  the  blue  celestial  dome ! 

For  thou  wilt  wander  to  yon  upper  heaven, 

And  bathe  thy  plumage  in  the  sunbeam's  home  ; 

And  soaring  upward  from  thy  dizzy  height 

On  free  and  fearless  wing,  be  lost  to  human  sight. 


Lnte  of  the  summer  clouds !  whilst  thou  art  singing 
Unto  thy  Maker  thy  soft  matin  hymn, 

My  own  mild  spirit,  from  its  temple  springing, 
Would  freely  join  thee  in  the  distance  dim  ; 

Rut  I  can  only  gaze  on  thee  and  sigh 

With  heart  upon  my  lip,  bright  minstrel  of  the  sky  I 


398  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

And  yet,  sweet  bird !  bright  thoughts  to  nie  are  given 
As  many  as  the  clustering  leaves  of  June ; 

And  my  young  heart  is  like  a  harp  of  heaven, 
Forever  strung  unto  some  pleasant  tune ; 

And  my  soul  burns  with  wild  poetic  fire, 

Though  simple  are  my  strains,  and  simpler  still  my  lyre. 

And  now,  farewell !  the  wild  wind  of  the  mountain 
And  the  blue  streams  alone  my  strains  have  heard ; 

And  it  is  well,  for  from  my  heart's  deep  fountain 
They  flow,  uncultured,  as  thine  own,  sweet  bird  I 

For  my  free  thoughts  have  ever  spurned  control, 

Since  this  heart  held  a  wish,  and  this  frail  form  a  soul ! 


WHEN  SOFT  STARS. 

When  soft  stars  are  peeping 

Through  the  pure  azure  sky 
And  southern  gales  sweeping 

Their  warm  breathing  by, 
Like  sweet  music  pealing 

Far  o'er  the  blue  sea, 
There  come  o'er  me  stealing 

Sweet  memories  of  thee. 

The  bright  rose  when  faded, 

Flings  forth  o'er  its  tomb 
Its  velvet  leaves  laded 

With  silent  perfume : 
Thus  round  me  will  hover 

In  grief  or  in  glee, 
Till  life's  dream  be  over, 

Sweet  memories  of  thee. 

As  a  sweet  lute,  that  lingers 

In  silence  alone, 
Unswept  by  light  fingers, 

Scarce  murmurs  a  tone, 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY.  399 

My  young  heart  resembled 

That  lute,  light  and  free, 
Till  o'er  its  chords  trembled, 

Those  memories  of  thee. 


THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD. 

O  Thou,  who  fling'st  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod — 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe, 

Whose  peaks  sustain  thy  throne,  O  God ! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  trembling  folds  are  lightly  furled, 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world ; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds 
In  one  bright  spot  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer, 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  love,  art  there. 

The  summer  flowers,  the  fair,  the  sweet, 

Upspringing  freely  from  the  sod, 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet, 

At  every  step,  Thy  smiles,  O  God ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares, 

They  bloom  in  palace-hall,  or  cot — 
Give  me,  O  Lord !  a  heart  like  theirs, 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot ! 
Within  their  pure  ambrosial  bells, 
In  odors  sweet  Thy  Spirit  dwells ; 
Their  breath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air — 
'Tis  Thine,  O  God  !  for  thou  art  there. 

List !  from  yon  casement  low  and  dim 
What  sounds  are  these,  that  fill  the  breeze? 

It  is  the  peasant's  evening  hymn 
Arrests  the  fisher  on  the  seas — 


40(1  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  old  man  leans  his  silver  hairs 
Upon  his  light  suspended  oar, 

Until  those  soft  delicious  airs 

Have  died  like  ripples  on  the  shore. 

Why  do  his  eyes  in  softness  roll  ? 

What  melts  the  manhood  from  his  soul  ? 

His  heart  is  filled  with  peace  and  prayer, 

For  Thou,  0  God !  art  with  him  there. 

The  birds  among  the  summer-blooma 

Pour  forth  to  Thee  their  strains  of  love, 
When,  trembling  on  uplifted  plumes, 

They  leave  the  earth  and  soar  above ; 
We  hear  their  sweet  familiar  airs 

Where'er  a  sunny  spot  is  found  ; 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  theirs, 

Diffusing  sweetness  all  around  ! 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  sweetest  anthems  softly  roll, 
Till,  melting  on  the  realms  of  air, 
Thy  still  small  voice  seems  whispering  there. 

The  stars,  those  floating  isles  of  light, 

Round  which  the  clouds  unfurl  their  sails, 
Pure  as  a  woman's  robe  of  white 

That  trembles  round  the  form  it  veils, 
They  touch  the  heart  as  with  a  spell, 

Yet  set  the  soaring  fancy  free, 
And  O  how  sweet  the  tales  they  tell ! 

They  tell  of  peace,  of  love,  and  Thee ! 
Each  raging  storm  that  wildly  blows, 
Each  balmy  gale  that  lifts  the  rose, 
Sublimely  grand,  or  softly  fair, 
They  speak  of  Thee,  for  Thou  art  there. 

The  spirit  oft  oppressed  with  doubt, 

May  strive  to  cast  Thee  from  its  thought, 

But  who  can  shut  thy  presence  out, 
Thou  mighty  Guest  that  eom'st  unsought ! 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY.  4()1 

In  spite  of  all  our  cold  resolves, 

Whate'er  our  thoughts,  where'er  we  he, 
Still  magnet-like  the  heart  revolves, 

And  points,  all  tremhling,  up  to  Thee : 
We  cannot  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  blessed, 
Above,  below,  on  earth,  in  air, 
For  Thou  the  living  God  art  there. 

Yet,  far  beyond  the  clouds  outspread. 

Where  soaring  fancy  oft  hath  been. 
There  is  a  land  where  Thou  hast  said 

The  pure  of  heart  shall  enter  in  ; 
In  those  far  realms,  so  calmly  bright. 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathes  its  soft  plumes  in  living  light 

That  sparkles  from  Thy  radiant  throne .' 
There  souls,  once  soft  and  sad  as  ours, 
Look  up  and  sing  'mid  fadeless  flowers — 
They  dream  no  more  of  grief  and  care. 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  peace,  art  there. 


THOU  CANST  NOT  FORGET  ME. 

Thou  canst  not  forget  me,  for  memory  will  fling 

Her  light  o'er  oblivion's  dark  sea ; 
And  wherever  thou  roamest,  a  something  will  cling 

To  thy  bosom  that  whispers  of  me ; 
Though  the  chords  of  thy  spirit  I  now  may  not  sweep. 

Of  my  touch  they'll  retain  a  soft  thrill, 
Like  the  low,  nnder-tone  of  the  mournful-voiced  deep, 

When  the  wind  that  has  swept  it  is  still. 

The  love  that  is  kept  in  the  beauty  of  trust. 
Cannot  pass  like  the  foam  from  the  seas, 

Or  a  mark  that  the  finger  hath  traced  in  the  dust, 
When  'tis  swept  by  the  breath  of  the  breeze ; 
26 


402  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

They  tell  me,  my  love,  thou  wilt  calmly  resign, 
Yet  I  know,  e'en  while  listening  to  them, 

Thou  wilt  sigh  for  the  heart  that  was  linked  unto  thine 
As  a  rose-bud  is  linked  to  its  stem. 

Thou  canst  not  forget  me,  too  long  thou  hast  flung 

Thy  spirit's  soft  pinion  o'er  mine ; 
Too  deep  was  the  promise,  that  round  my  lips  clung, 

As  they  softly  responded  to  thine : 
In  the  hush  of  the  twilight,  beneath  the  blue  skies, 

My  presence  will  mantle  thy  soul, 
And  a  feeling  of  softness  will  rush  to  thine  eyes, 

Too  deep  for  thy  manhood's  control. 

Thou  mayst  roam  to  thine  own  isle  of  beauty  and  fame, 

Far,  far  from  the  land  of  the  free  ; 
Yet,  each  wind  that  floats  round  thee  will  murmur  the  name 

That  is  softer  than  music  to  thee ; 
And  when  round  thee  darkly  misfortunes  shall  crowd, 

Thou'lt  think,  like  the  beautiful  form 
Of  the  rainbow,  that  arches  the  thick  tempest-cloud, 

My  love  would  have  brightened  the  storm, 

Thou  canst  not  forget  me — the  passion,  that  dwelt 

In  the  depth  of  thy  soul,  could  not  die, 
With  the  memory  of  all  thou  hast  murmured  and  felt, 

In  thy  bosom  'twill  slumbering  lie ; 
Thou  mayst  turn  to  another,  and  wish  to  forget, 

But  the  wish  will  not  bring  thee  repose, 
For  ah!  thou  wilt  find  that  the  thorn  of  regret 

Will  be  linked  with  the  sweets  of  the  rose. 


ON  ENTERING  THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

Hush  !  for  my  heart-blood  curdles  as  we  enter 
To  glide  in  gloom  these  shadowy  realms  about; 

Oh!  what  a  scene  !— the  round  globe  to  its  centre, 
To  form  this  awful  cave,  seems  hollowed  out! 


AMELIA    B.   WELBY:  £Qi 

Yet  pause — no  mystic  word  hath  yet  heen  spoken 

To  win  us  entrance  to  this  awful  sphere — 
A  whispered  prayer  must  ho  our  watchword  token, 
And  peace — like  that  around  us — peace  unbroken, 
The  passport  here. 

And  now  farewell,  ye  birds  and  blossoms  tender, 
Ye  glistening  leaves  by  morning  dews  impearled, 

And  you,  ye  beams  that  light  with  softened  splendor 
The  glimmering  glories  of  yon  outer  world ! 

While  thus  we  paused  these  silent  arches  under, 
To  you  and  yours  a  wild  farewell  we  wave, 

For  oh  !  perhaps  this  awful  spot  may  sunder 

Our  hearts  from  all  we  love — this  world  of  wonder 
May  be  our  grave. 

And  yet  farewell !  the  faintly  nickering  torches 

Light  our  lone  footsteps  o'er  the  silent  sod  ; 
And  now  all  hail,  ye  everlasting  arches, 

Ye  dark  dominions  of  an  unseen  God ! 
Who  would  not  for  this  sight  the  bliss  surrender 

Of  all  the  beauties  of  yon  sunny  sphere, 
And  break  the  sweetest  ties,  however  tender, 
To  be  the  witness  of  the  silent  splendor 
That  greets  us  here ! 

Ye  glittering  caves,  ye  high  o'erhanging  arches, 

A  pilgrim-band  we  glide  amid  your  gloom, 
With  breathless  lips  and  high  uplifted  torches, 

All  fancifully  decked  in  cave-costume ; 
Far  from  the  day's  glad  beams,  and  songs  and  flowers, 

We've  come  with  spell-touched  hearts,  ye  countless  caves, 
To  glide  enchanted,  for  a  few  brief  hours, 
Through  the  calm  beauty  of  your  awful  bowers 
And  o'er  your  waves ! 

Beautiful  cave  !  that  all  my  soul  entrances, 

Known  as  the  Wonder  of  the  West  so  long, 
Oh  'twere  a  fate  beyond  my  wildest  fancies, 

Could  I  but  shrine  yon  now,  as  such,  in  song! 


4()4  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

Hut  'tis  in  vain— the  untaught  child  of  Nature, 

I  cannot  vent  the  thoughts  that  through  me  flow, 
Yet  none  the  less  is  graved  thine  every  feature 
Upon  the  wild  imaginative  creature 
That  hails  you  now ! 

Palace  of  Nature !  with  a  poet's  fancies 

I've  ofttimes  pictured  thee  in  dreams  of  bliss, 

And  glorious  scenes  were  given  to  my  glances, 
But  never  gazed  I  on  a  scene  like  this ! 

Compared  with  thine,  what  are  the  awful  wonders 
Of  the  deep,  fathomless,  unbounded  sea? 

Or  the  storm-cloud,  whose  lance  of  lightning  sunders 

The  solid  oak  ?— or  even  thine  awful  thunders, 
Niagara ! 

Hark !  hear  ye  not  those  echoes  ringing  after 
Our  gliding  steps— my  spirit  faints  with  fear — 

Those  mocking  tones,  like  subterranean  laughter— 
Or  does  the  brain  grow  wild  with  wandering  here  ? 

There  may  be  spectres  wild,  and  forms  appalling, 
Our  wandering  eyes,  where'er  we  rove,  to  greet — 

Methinks  I  hear  their  low  sad  voices  calling 

Upon  us  now,  and  far  away  the  falling 
Of  phantom  feet. 

The  glittering  dome,  the  arch,  the  towering  column, 
Are  sights  that  greet  us  now  on  every  hand  ; 

And  all  so  wild — so  strange— so  sweetly  solemn — 
So  like  one's  fancies  formed  of  fairy -land  ! 

And  these  then  are  your  works,  mysterious  powers ! 
Your  spells  are  o'er,  around  us,  and  beneath, 

These  opening  aisles,  these  crystal  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  glittering  grots,  and  high-arched  beauteous  bowers, 
As  still  as  death. 

But  yet  lead  on !  perhaps  than  this  fair  vision, 
Some  lovelier  yet  in  darkling  distance  lies- 
Some  cave  of  beauty,  like  those  realms  elysian 
That  ofttimes  open  on  poetic  eyes ! 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY.  405 

Some  spot,  where  led  by  fancy's  sweet  assistance, 

Our  wandering  feet  o'er  silvery  sands  may  stray, 
Where  prattling  waters  urge  with  soft  resistance 
Their  wavelets  on,  till  lost  in  airy  distance, 
And  far  away ! 

Oft  the  lone  Indian  o'er  these  low-toned  waters 

Has  bent  perhaps  his  swarthy  brow  to  lave ! 
It  seems  the  requiem  of  their  dark-eyed  daughters — 

Those  sweet  wild  notes  that  wander  o'er  the  wave! 
Hast  thou  no  relic  of  their  ancient  glory, 

No  legend,  lonely  cavern  !  linked  with  thine  ? 
No  tale  of  love — no  wild  romantic  story 
Of  some  warm  heart  whose  dreams  were  transitory 
And  sweet  as  mine  ? 

It  must  be  so !  the  thought  your  spell  enhances — ■ 

Yet  why  pursue  this  wild,  romantic  dream  ? 
The  heart,  afloat  upon  its  fluttering  fancies, 

Would  lose  itself  in  the  bewildering  theme ! 
And  yet,  ye  waters !  still  I  list  your  surging, 

And  ever  and  anon  I  seem  to  view, 
In  fancy's  eye,  some  Indian  maid  emerging 
Through  the  deep  gloom,  and  o'er  your  waters  urging 
Her  light  canoe. 

Oh  silent  cave  !  amid  the  elevation 

Of  lofty  thought  could  I  abide  with  thee, 
My  soul's  sad  shrine,  my  heart's  lone  habitation, 

Forever  and  forever  thou  shouldst  be ! 
Here  into  song  my  every  thought  I'd  render, 

And  thou — and  thou  alone — shouldst  be  my  theme, 
Far  from  the  weary  world's  delusive  splendor, 
Would  not  my  lonely  life  be  all  one  tender 
Delicious  dream  ? 

Yes,  though  no  other  form  save  mine  might  hover 

In  these  lone  halls,  no  other  whisper  roll 
Along  those  airy  domes  that  arch  me  over, 

Save  gentle  Echo's,  sister  of  my  soul ! 


406  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Yet,  'neath  these  domes,  whose  spell  of  beauty  weighs  me, 

My  heart  would  evermore  in  bliss  abide — 
No  sorrow  to  depress,  no  hope  to  raise  me, 
Here  would  I  ever  dwell,  with  none  to  praise  me 
And  none  to  chide  ! 

Region  of  caves  and  streams !  and  must  I  sever 
My  spirit  from  your  spell  ?     'Twere  bliss  to  stray 

The  happy  rover  of  your  realms  forever, 
And  yet,  farewell  forever  and  for  Sye ! 

I  leave  you  now,  yet  many  a  sparkling  token 
Within  your  cool  recesses  I  have  sought 

To  treasure  up  with  fancies  still  unspoken — 

Till  from  these  quivering  heart-strings,  Death  hath  broken 
The  thread  of  thought ! 


KATE  A.  DU  BOSE. 

Mes.  Du  Bose  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  Eev.  William 
Richards,  of  Beaufort  District,  S.  C.  She  was  born  in  the  year 
182S,  in  a  village  in  Oxfordshire,  England.  Soon  after  her 
birth,  the  family  came  to  this  country  and  settled  in  Georgia, 
removing  thence  in  a  few  years  to  their  present  home,  in 
South  Carolina. 

In  1848,  she  married  Mr.  Charles  W.  Du  Bose,  an  accom- 
plished gentleman,  and  leading  lawyer,  of  Sparta,  Georgia, 
where,  in  the  midst  of  a  refined  and  cultivated  people,  they  at 
once  set  up  their  household  gods.  In  their  "  Willow  Cottage  " — 
the  coziest  of  homes,  embowered  in  the  rich  flowering  trees  of 
that  region — their  family  of  brave  boys  is  growing  daily, 
under  a  discipline  which  promises  the  manliest  and  worthiest 
life. 

Mrs.  Du  Bose's  education,  received  in  our  northern  cities, 
was  made  most  successfully  available  in  several  years'  experi- 
ence as  teacher  in  the  home  of  her  adoption. 

Her  love  of  letters  was  indicated  at  a  very  early  age,  and 
had  circumstances  thrown  her  into  the  field  as  a  professional 
contestant  for  literary  honors,  she  must  have  achieved  distinc- 
tion. As  it  is,  her  productions  have  come  to  us,  for  the  most 
part,  in  journals  and  magazines,  only  as  they  have  been  sug- 
gested or  solicited,  and  generally  under  the  name  of  "  Leila 
Cameron."  Many  of  her  best  poems  were  contributed  to  the 
"  Southern  Literary  Gazette,"  formerly  published  in  Charles- 

407 


408  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

ton,  and  edited  by  her  brother,  Kev.  Win.  C.  Kickards,  who  has 
since  removed  to  Providence,  R.  I.  She  was  also  a  favorite  cor- 
respondent of  the  "  Orion  Magazine,"  of  Georgia,  and  it  was 
for  this  paper  that  she  wrote  the  popidar  prize  poem, 
"  "Waclmlla  "  a  fine  spirited  description  of  a  famous  fountain  in 
Florida. 

In  1S58,  her  first  published  volume  was  issued  from  the 
press  of  Sheldon  &  Co.,  New  York.  This  is  an  interesting 
prose  story  for  the  young,  entitled  "The  Pastor's  Household.1' 
It  displays  a  narrative  and  dramatic  power,  indicative  of  skill 
and  resource  in  this  difficult  department  of  literary  composi- 
tion. It  is  to  be  hoped  that  our  "  little  people  "  may  be  made 
happy  by  many  other  genial  and  wholesome  books  from  this 
writer's  pen. 

As  the  child  of  a  gifted  and  highly  educated  parentage,  and 
a  member  of  a  large  family  circle,  all  remarkable  for  aesthetic 
proclivities,  Mrs.  Du  Bose  has  enjoyed  unusual  facilities  for 
early  and  thorough  cidtivation.  One  of  her  brothers — to 
whom  we  have  already  referred — is  not  only  known  as  the 
editor  of  a  popular  southern  journal,  but  as  the  author  of  a 
happily  designed  work,  called  "  The  Shakspeare  Calendar ;"  while 
another  brother,  T.  Addison  Richards,  of  New  York,  has  won 
distinction,  not  only  as  an  artist  and  poet,  but  as  the  efficient 
principal  of  the  "School  of  Design  for  Women,"  which  is  doin^- 
a  noble  work  within  the  walls  of  the  Cooper  Institute. 

Combining,  as  Mrs.  Du  Bose  does,  the  most  delicate  tastes 
with  equal  earnestness  of  character,  and  a  large  religious 
element,  she  could  not  fail  to  exert  in  any  community  the 
healthful  influence,  which  is  so  essentially  felt  and  confessed 
throughout  the  little  village  in  which  her  lot  is  cast.  We  see 
liere — as  we  see  nowhere  so  truly  as  in  southern  households — the 
rare  union  of  unpretending  domestic  love  with  artistic  capacity 
and  achievement. 


KATE    A.   DU    BOSE.  409 


THE  PASTOR'S  HOUSEHOLD. 

At  the  desk  in  front  of  our  hero,  sat  a  boy,  whose  pale,  sickly  countenance, 
and  melancholy  air,  had  from  the  first  excited  his  warmest  sympathies. 
Many  acts  of  kindness  had  endeared  him  to  the  poor  lad,  whose  threadbare 
apparel  stamped  him  as  the  child  of  poverty,  and  whose  constitutional  weak- 
ness, to  which  was  added  a  crippled  limb,  put  it  out  of  the  question  for  him 
to  join  in  the  more  active  sports  of  the  boys,  and  sometimes  even  to  walk 
without  great  pain  and  difficulty.  At  such  times,  Claude's  arm  was  ever 
ready  to  assist,  and  often  would  he  leave  a  fine  game  of  ball,  or  an  entertain- 
ing book,  to  enliven  a  dull  hour  for  the  poor  crippled  lad. 

"  Lame  Jimmy,"  as  everybody  called  him,  was  an  orphan,  thrown  help- 
less and  friendless  upon  the  charity  of  Dr.  Carlisle,  who,  having  furnished 
him  a  place  at  his  table,  and  in  his  school-room,  gave  himself  no  further 
trouble  about  the  child,  whose  scanty  wardrobe  bore  evidence  to  the  neglect 
with  which  he  was  treated.  This  was  eked  out  by  various  trifling  services 
performed  for  the  elder  boys — copying  exercises,  and  the  like — which,  to 
their  credit,  were  frequently  liberally  rewarded.  Sometimes,  a  bundle  of 
shoes  and  clothing  was  given  to  him  by  some  lad  who  had  outgrown  them ; 
and  in  various  ways  poor  Lame  Jimmy  contrived  to  appear  always  neat, 
though  his  wardrobe  was  very  seldom  amply  supplied. 

He  was  a  meek,  silent  boy,  evidently  feeling  deeply  the  slights  of  his  com- 
panions— but  never  complaining — and  always  grateful  for  kindness,  and 
truthful  and  upright  in  every  act.  A  look  of  patient  suffering  ever  dwelt 
upon  his  pale  features,  giving  them  an  expression  unfitted  to  his  years. 

But  this  boy,  with  all  his  physical  and  worldly  disadvantages,  possessed 
a  mind  of  no  ordinary  cast.  Without  any  apparent  effort,  he  mastered  the 
most  difficult  studies;  and  other  boys,  who  mocked  at  his  poverty  and 
treated  him  with  disdain,  hesitated  not  to  apply  to  Lame  Jimmy  when- 
ever there  was  a  hard  sentence  to  construe,  or  a  knotty  problem  to 
solve. 

But,  after  awhile,  Jimmy  flagged  in  his  progress — his  head  often  dropped 
wearily  on  his  desk,  and  his  hollow  cough  broke  more  frequently  the  still- 
ness of  the  school-room.  The  boys  were  so  accustomed  to  his  limping  step 
and  painful  cough,  that  it  elicited  no  attention ;  but  Claude,  whose  heart  was 
ever   open   to   the  distress  or  suffering  of  others,  remarked  the  increased 


410  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

illness  of  the  boy  with  much  concern.  He  mentioned  it  to  Percy,  who  had 
also  been  kind  to  the  poor  fellow,  but  he  said,  "  Oh,  Lame  Jimmy  is  often 
so ;  but  he  will  be  better  after  awhile." 

Claude  had  been  now  nearly  a  year  at  Dr.  Carlisle's  school,  and  only 
once  during  that  time  had  he  visited  Lynn  for  a  few  days ;  but  now  the 
annual  examination  was  approaching,  to  be  followed  by  a  vacation  of 
several  weeks.  Every  year  a  number  of  students  passed  from  the  institu- 
tion, either  to  enter  upon  the  business  of  the  great  world,  or  to  be  admitted 
to  college  halls  ;  and  a  large  assembly  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  met  to  listen 
to  the  original  addresses  prepared  for  the  occasion. 

This  was  a  great  day  with  all,  and  Claude  looked  forward  to  it  with  a 
beating  heart  and  a  kindling  cheek ;  for  with  the  other  guests  would  come 
his  uncle  and  little  Nell,  now  entering  her  tenth  year.  Added  to  his  own 
eager  desire  to  see  them,  was  the  wish  that  Percy  should  know  the  friends 
he  so  dearly  loved. 

Ambitious  of  distinguishing  himself  in  their  eyes,  the  ardent  boy  pored 
over  his  books,  early  and  late.  Indeed,  Percy  had  fairly  to  drag  him  away 
for  necessary  recreation.  A  short  time  before  the  closing  day,  he  threw 
down  book  and  pencil  one  evening,  and,  wearied  with  study,  his  brow  pale 
and  his  cheek  burning,  he  passed  hastily  through  the  common  hall  to  join 
the  boys,  whose  merry  voices  resounded  from  the  playground.  Bounding 
lightly  down  the  steps,  exhilarated  by  the  cool  breeze  that  played  so  grate- 
fully on  his  throbbing  temples,  he  caught  the  plaintive  tones  of  Lame  Jimmy, 
and  turning  suddenly,  saw  him  standing  at  the  back  entrance,  struggling  to 
release  a  small  volume  which  he  held  from  the  rude  grasp  of  Andrews. 

"Don't — please  don't,"  said  the  meek  tones;  "it  was  my  mother's,  and 
she  is  dead." 

"Give  it  up,  boy — confound  you! — give  it  up,  I  say,  or  by  Jupiter  I'll 
show  you  stars  in  the  day-time  !" 

"  Oh,  please  don't,  Andrews ;  it's  everything  I've  got  in  the  world,  and 
yon  said  you  would  throw  it  into  the  duck-pond,  to  spite  Claude  Villars ; 
you  may  kill  me.  but  you  shan't  have  it." 

"  And  so  I  will  spite  him,  a  canting  hypocrite.  Don't  you  resist  me,  yon 
pitiful  puppy!  By  George!  I'll  teach  you  better  manners;"  and  uttering  a 
dreadful  oath,  he  snatched  the  volume  from  the  fragile  grasp,  and  threw  it 
into  a  trough  of  dirty  water  that  stood  near.  Then,  flushed  with  passion,  he 
turned  to  the  lad,  who  stood  aghast  and  trembling  at  his  violence,  and  dealt 
him  a  blow  which  felled  him  to  the  ground. 


KATE    A.    DU    BOSE.  4H 

In  an  instant  Claude  confronted  him,  his  noble  face  flaming  with  indig- 
nation. 

"Mean,  cowardly  tyrant!"  he  cried,  "how  dare  you  to  strike  one  whom 
God  has  singled  out  for  pity  ?  Take  that  to  teach  you  how  to  treat  the  weak 
and  helpless  !"  and  summoning  all  his  strength,  he  struck  him  full  in  the  face 
with  his  clenched  fist. 

"  Hurrah  for  Claude!  Don't  his  eyes  flash  ;"  "  Bravo  !  Villars,  give  it  to 
him  again ;"  "  He's  roused  the  tiger  at  last,"  shouted  half  a  dozen  voices,  as 
little  knot  of  boys  gathered  around  ;  but  Claude,  his  sudden  passion  expended, 
folded  his  arms,  and  calmly  waited  the  approach  of  his  antagonist,  who, 
almost  blind  with  passion,  came  rushing  toward  him.  Agile  as  a  cat,  Claude 
sprang  lightly  aside  and  escaped  the  blow.  Before  the  bully  could  collect 
himself  for  a  new  assault,  the  form  of  Dr.  Carlisle  appeared,  and  his  stern 
voice  silenced  the  clamor  of  tongues. 

"  How  now,  young  gentlemen  !  is  my  house  a  fit  place  for  disgraceful 
broils  ?     Claude  Villars,  do  I  see  you  engaged  in  an  affair  like  this  ?" 

Claude  raised  his  clear  eyes  undauntedly,  but  made  no  reply.  For  an 
instant  the  doctor  eyed  the  group  in  stern  silence.  Jimmy  had  by  this  time 
risen  to  his  feet,  and  stood  at  Claude's  side,  the  tears  running  down  his  pale 
cheeks,  and  his  large,  mournful  eyes  (the  only  feature  that  redeemed  his 
positive  ugliness  of  face),  fixed  appealingly  on  the  wrathful  countenance 
before  them.     At  length  the  doctor  spoke. 

"  Villars,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this,  and  where  did  Andrews  get  that 
black  eye  ?     I  demand  an  explanation." 

"I  have  none  to  make,  sir,"  replied  Claude  quietly,  yet  respectfully. 

"  He  gave  it  to  me,"  muttered  Andrews. 

"Shame  !  shame  !"  passed  whisperingly  through  the  crowd  of  boys. 

Again  the  doctor  regarded  them  silently,  and  seeing  the  words  quivering 
on  Jimmy's  pale  lips,  nodded  kindly,  saying : 

"  Speak  on,  my  boy  ;  I  see  you  have  something  to  say." 

Thus  encouraged,  he  poured  forth  warmly  the  story  of  his  wrongs,  and 
Claude's  retaliation ;  treating  lightly  his  own  sufferings,  but  eloquently 
defending  his  young  protector.  But  alas  for  the  poor  boy!  as  he  thus  plain- 
tively told  his  tale,  his  face  turned  deadly  pale,  and  a  small  stream  of  blood 
trickled  from  his  thin  lips  on  his  old  worn  jacket ;  fainting,  he  would  again 
have  fallen,  but  for  the  supporting  arms  of  Claude,  who  leaned  anxiously 
over  his  drooping  burden. 

•' Carry  him  to  bed  at  once,"  said   the  doctor,  much  shocked.     "Young 


412  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

gentlemen,  I  will  see  you  in  my  study,"  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  playground 
exhibited  its  usual  quiet  appearance. 

For  many  days  poor  Jimmy  was  extremely  ill ;  at  length  he  began  slowly 
to  recover,  and  a  day  or  two  before  the  close  of  the  term,  walked  feebly 
downstairs.  Andrews  had  been  expelled  from  school,  but,  through  the 
earnest  intercession  of  Claude,  his  punishment  was  mitigated,  and  he  was 
spared  the  public  disgrace  attendant  upon  expulsion.  After  two  weeks,  he 
was  again  seated  at  his  desk,  humbled  and  quiet,  if  not  repentant. 

"  You've  done  for  Andrews,  Claude,"  said  Percy,  laughing,  as  they 
passed  him  in  the  playground  the  day  before  examination.  "I  don't  think 
he  will  ever  molest  you  again  ;  you  '  heaped  coals  of  fire  on  his  head,'  by 
saving  him  from  public,  disgrace,  and  then  capped  the  climax  by  correcting 
his  theme  when  you  were  so  desperately  busy  yourself." 

"Pho  !  that  was  nothing  ;  but  I  do  think  Andrews  will  be  a  better  fel- 
low ;  he  seems  heartily  ashamed  of  his  cowardly  treatment  of  poor  Jim. 
What  do  you  think  ?  he  came  upstairs  yesterday  with  a  beautiful  new  Bible, 
and  begged  Jimmy  to  accept  of  it  in  token  of  forgiveness  for  his  conduct." 

'•And  how  was  it  received  ?" 

"Oh,  you  know  Jimmy  is  meekness  itself;  I  do  believe  he  will  merit  the 
reward  of  the  third  beatitude — '  For  they  shall  inherit  the  earth ' — if  any 
one  does.  He  put  out  his  poor  thin  hand,  and  took  the  Bible  with  a  patient 
smile ;  but  when  we  were  alone  again,  he  said  to  me,  with  tears  swelling  in 
his  large  eyes,  '  This  can  never  be  to  me  what  the  other  was — my  own  dear 
mother's  Bible!'" 

WAOHULLA. 

Chief  among  the  attractions  of  Tallahassee  are  the  many  beautiful  springs  found  in  the  vicinity. 
Ten  miles  from  the  city  is  a  famous  fountain,  called  Wachulla.  It  is  an  immense  limestone  basin, 
as  yet  unfathomed  in  the  centre,  with  waters  as  transparent  as  crystal. 

Fountain  of  beauty  !  on  my  vision  breaking, 

How  springs  my  heart  thy  varied  charms  to  greet, 

While  thoughts  of  loveliness  within  me  waking, 
Fill  all  my  being  with  their  influence  sweet. 

Gazing  on  thee,  my  spirit's  wild  commotion 
Is  hushed  beneath  some  mighty  magic  spell — 

Till  thrilling  with  each  new  and  strange  emotion, 

No  feelings  but  of  high  and  pure  devotion 
Within  me  dwell. 


KATEA.   DUBOSE.  413 

Waehulla,  beauteous  spring!  thy  crystal  waters 

Reflect  the  loveliness  of  southern  skies ; 
And  oft  methinks  the  dark-haired  Indian  daughters 

Bend  o'er  thy  silver  depths  with  wondering  eyes; 
From  forest  glade  the  swarthy  chief  emerging, 

Delighted  paused,  thy  matchless  charms  to  view ; 
Then  to  thy  flower-gemmed  border  slowly  verging, 
I  see  him  o'er  thy  placid  bosom  urging 
His  light  canoe ! 

Break  not  the  spell  that  wraps  this  beauteous  vision, 

Tn  the  enchantment  of  some  fairy  dream; 
Methinks  I  wander  in  these  realms  elysian, 

Which  on  poetic  fancies  sometimes  gleam. 
Round  me  the  dim-arched  forest  proudly  towers, 

Seeming  those  light  and  floating  clouds  to  kiss ; 
Oh,  let  me  linger  for  a  few  brief  hours 
By  this  enchanted  fount — these  wild-wood  bowers, 
To  dream  of  bliss. 

With  the  bright  crimson  of  the  maple  twining, 

The  fragrant  bay  its  peerless  chaplet  weaves ; 
And  where  magnolias  in  their  pride  are  shining, 

The  broad  palmetto  spreads  its  fan-like  leaves: 
Far  down  the  forest  aisles,  where  sunbeams  quiver 

The  fairest  flowers  their  rainbow  hues  combine; 
And  pendent  o'er  the  swiftly-flowing  river, 
The  shadows  of  the  graceful  willow  shiver, 
In  glad  sunshine. 

Bright-plnmaged  birds  their  gorgeous  hues  enwreathing 

Their  amorous  tunes  to  listening  flowers  repeat ; 
Which,  in  reply,  their  sweetest  incense  breathing, 

Pour  on  the  silent  air  their  perfume  sweet ; 
From  tree  to  tree  the  golden  jasmine  creeping, 

Hangs  its  light  bells  on  every  slender  spray ; 
And  in  each  fragrant  chalice  slily  peeping, 
The  humming-bird  its  odorous  store  is  reaping. 
The  livelong  day. 


414  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Nature  lias  here  no  willful  mood  unfolded, 
Her  choicest  stores  the  wilderness  to  deck ; 

And    forms  of  rare  and  perfect  beauty  molded, 
Where  no  rude  hand  her  beauty  dares  to  cheek. 

How  could  I  sit,  and  watch  the  waters  glancing 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  these  cloudless  skies ; 

My  vivid  fancy  every  charm  enhancing, 

And  sight  and  sound  my  senses  all  entrancing, 
Till  daylight  dies. 

How  o'er  the  misty  past  my  thoughts  would  ponder, 
When  sad  and  lone  beside  Wachulla's  spring, 

The  red  man,  flying  from  his  foes,  would  wander, 
And  to  the  wave  his  heart- wrung  murmurs  fling. 

Oppression  stern  his  free-born  soul  enthralling, 
He  flies  for  shelter  to  those  wild-wood  haunts — 

And  on  the  spirit  of  his  loved  ones  calling, 

While  murmuring  voices  on  his  ear  are  falling, 
This  descant  chaunts. 

"  Great  Spirit  of  our  race  1  hast  thou  forsaken 
Thy  favored  children  in  their  hour  of  need? 

Their  wailing  voice  Wachulla's  echoes  waken — 
Will  not  the  spirit  of  their  Father  heed? 

Sunshine  and  joy  our  own  loved  dells  are  flushing, 
But  'mid  their  charms  the  red  man  wanders  lone ; 

He  hears  the  free  winds  through  the  forest  rushing,    j 

He  sees  Wachulla's  gladsome  waters  gushing, 
Yet  hears  no  tone !" 

Alas,  sad  warrior!  by  these  silver  waters 
No  more  shall  gather  thy  ill-fated  band ; 

Thy  hunters  bold,  thy  dark-eyed  lovely  daughters, 
Long  since  have  sought  their  own  loved  spirit  land. 

Yet  still  methinks  I  hear  their  voices  sighing 
In  the  soft  breeze  that  blows  from  yonder  shore ; 

And  wild-wood  echoes  to  the  stream  replying, 

Mourn  that  the  voices  on  the  water  dying 
Return  no  more .' 


KATE    A.   DU    BOSE.  415 

But  now  the  soft  south  wind  all  gently  wooeth 
Our  little  bark  to  leave  the  flower-gemmed  shore ; 

And  the  light  breeze  that  perfume  round  us  streweth, 
This  fairy  basin  soon  will  waft  us  o'er ; 

Then  while  soft  zephyrs  round  us  faintly  blowing, 
Bear  wordless  voices  from  the  forest  deep, 

We'll  listen  to  the  water's  ceaseless  flowing, 

And  watch  the  wavelets  dancing  on — unknowing 
What  course  they  keep. 

With  rapid  oar,  the  water-lilies  parting, 

Whose  snowy  petals  form  the  Naiad's  wreath, 
Soon  o'er  the  crystal  fountain  swiftly  darting, 

We  cast  our  gaze  a  hundred  feet  beneath ! 
Between  two  heavens  of  purest  blue  suspended, 

Above  these  fairy  realms  we  float  at  will — 
Where  crystal  grottoes  lift  their  columns  splendid, 
Formed  of  rare  gems  of  pearl  and  emerald,  blended 
With  magic  skill. 

Now  in  the  west  the  gold  and  crimson  blending, 

Tell  that  soft  twilight  falleth  o'er  the  world  ; 
And  on  the  breeze  all  noiselessly  descending, 

The  dew-drops  lie  in  lily -cups  impearled, 
All  thought  is  lost  in  sweet  bewildering  fancies, 

While  from  the  forest  dies  the  light  of  day ; 
And  witching  silence  every  spell  enhances, 
As  o'er  the  wave  the  last  glad  sunbeam  glances, 
Then  fades  away  ! 

Farewell,  Wachulla !  sadly  must  I  sever 

My  spirit  from  thy  sweet  bewildering  spell ; 
I  leave  thee,  fairy  fount,  perhaps  forever, 

Ami  mournfully  I  bid  thee  now — farewell! 
Yet  still  thy  loveliness  my  soul  o'erpowers, 

While  dreamy  shadows  on  the  forest  fall — 
And  long  shall  memories  of  thy  beauteous  bowers 
Fall  on  my  In-art  like  dew  on  summer  flowers. 
Refreshing  all ! 


A.   R.  BLOUNT  AND   C.   B.   SINCLAIR. 

Miss  Blount  is  a  native  of  Georgia,  born  June  22d,  1839. 
Her  family,  for  many  years  resident  in  Richmond  County, 
removed  but  recently  to  Augusta,  Georgia,  where  our  young 
writer  was  deprived  of  her  estimable  mother. 

Until  her  thirteenth  year,  she  was  educated  entirely  at  the 
country  schools  in  her  neighborhood,  but  after  that  time 
entered  the  junior  class  of  the  Methodist  Female  College  at 
Madison,  Georgia,  where  she  graduated  at  the  age  of  seventeen. 
A  satirical  poem  on  "The  Follies  of  the  Age,"  which  she 
delivered  on  commencement  day,  was  extensively  circulated 
through  the  South,  and  received  many  encomiums. 

Forced  by  pecimiary  reverses  in  the  family  to  make  her  own 
way  in  the  world,  she  resolved  to  devote  her  time  to  literary 
pursuits  ;  and,  soon  after  her  collegiate  course  ended,  assumed 
the  editorial  responsibility  of  a  paper  published  at  Bainbridge, 
Georgia.  For  two  years  she  continued  the  arduous  duties  of 
this  position,  upheld  by  the  appreciation  of  the  public,  and  the 
blessings  of  those  nearest  and  dearest  at  her  own  fireside. 

Miss  Blount  has  been  several  times  the  successful  competitor 
for  prizes  offered  for  poems  and  novelettes ;  on  one  occasion 
receiving  a  gold  medal  valued  at  a  hundred  dollars,  for  a  short 
prose  sketch,  entitled  "  The  Sisters."  A  volume  of  her  poems 
has  just  been  issued  by  H.  D.  Norrell,  Augusta,  Ga. 

Miss  Sinclair  was  bom  in  Milledgeville,  Ga.,  May  22,  1839. 
Her  father,  the  Rev.  Elijah  Sinclair,  at  the  time  of  her  birth 


A.    R.  BLOUNT    AND    C.   B.   SINCLAIR.  417 

was  a  travelling  preacher  and  a  member  of  the  Georgia  Con- 
ference. A  few  years  after,  his  health  failing,  he  retired  from 
professional  service,  and  removed  to  Macon,  Ga.,  where  he 
became  engaged  in  extensive  mercantile  business.  From  thence 
he  afterward  removed  to  Savannah,  then  to  North  Carolina, 
and  finally  to  Georgetown,  S.  C,  where  he  passed  the  last  years 
of  his  life.  His  family  then  removed  to  Augusta,  Ga.,  and 
there  Miss  Sinclair  began  her  career  as  a  writer. 

Disavowing  all  desire  for  fame,  as  well  as  any  great  degree 
of  confidence  in  her  own  abilities,  Miss  Sinclair  has  just  given 
to  the  world  a  book  of  poems,  impelled  chiefly,  she  says,  by  the 
hope  of  being  enabled  thereby  to  secure  a  home  for  her  mother 
and  sisters. 

As  we  have  received  both  of  these  volumes  too  late  for  a 
careful  reading,  we  subjoin  a  spicy  notice  from  the  pen  of  the 
gifted  poet  and  editor,  John  E.  Thompson,  of  Eichmond,  Va. 

Poems.    By  Miss  Annie  R.  Blount.    Augusta,  Ga. :  Published  by  H.  D.  Norrell,  No.  226  Broad  street 
1860. 

Poems.     By  Miss  Carrie  Bell  Sinclair.     Same  publisher. 

"  With  compliments  of  the  author"  in  each  volume!  In  the  name  of  all 
the  nine  Muses  at  once,  we  woukl  ask  what  courage,  what  capacity  has  the 
editor  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  merits  of  poems  thus  brought  to  his  notice? 
A  pair  of  little  birds  come  out  of  the  forest  and  sing  their  melodies  in  con- 
cert for  us,  for  all  a  June  morning,  with  irrepressible  gladness  and  as  if  their 
hearts  were  full  to  bursting — can  we  fail  to  feel  grateful  for  the  singing,  and 
shall  we  say  that  the  nightingale  and  the  mocking-bird  thrill  a  sweeter  note 
than  the  linnet  and  the  finch  ?  Shall  we  complain  of  the  crocus  that  it  is  not 
a  rose  or  a  camellia?  Shall  wo  try  the  poems  by  the  standard  of  highest 
excellence  and  compare  our  sister  poets  (for  such  they  seem  in  quality  and  in 
affection)  with  Mrs.  Browning?  Thank  you,  no.  Nor  will  we  seek  to  point 
out  imperfections;  but  as  something  we  mvst  say  of  Misses  Blount  and  Sin- 
clair, let  us  own  that  their  volumes  indicate  poetic  impressibility  and  much 
facility  of  versification,  but  also  betray  exceeding  haste  in  the  writers,  as  if 
they  imagined  that  poetry  must  be  composed  with  the  greatest  speed,  dashed 

27 


418  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

off  at  the  precious,  golden  "  moment  of  inspiration,"  and  forthwith  placed  in 
print  before  an  expectant  and  sympathizing  public.  This  is  a  sad  mistake. 
The  truest  poets  have  always  painfully  elaborated  their  verses,  as  if,  accord- 
ing to  the  inexorable  law  of  human  compeusations  which  decrees  that  all 
pleasure  must  be  bought  of  suffering,  these  verses  would  afford  the  reader 
no  enjoyment  had  they  cost  the  writer  no  trouble.  The  most  tripping  and 
graceful  of  all  the  "Irish  Melodies,"  which  would  seem  to  have  gushed  from 
the  fountain  of  Mr.  Thomas  Moore  as  freely  as  a  spring  pours  its  cool,  spark- 
ling tribute  into  Killarney,  were,  in  point  of  fact,  not  in  the  least  gushing ; 
they  just  trickled,  as  it  were,  drop  by  drop,  and  it  was  not  until  four  or  five 
weeks  had  elapsed,  in  several  instances,  from  the  time  of  its  commencement, 
that  the  perfect  ballad  was  ready  for  the  piano  and  the  printer.  Byron,  we 
know,  wrote  rapidly,  but  "Childe  Harold  "  itself  has  some  errors  in  gram- 
mar, and  whoever  gets  a  sight  of  the  original  MS.,  in  the  little  Byron  parlor 
over  the  book  wareroom  of  Mr.  John  Murray,  in  Albemarle  street,  will  see 
that  it  was  fairly  written  over  and  over  half  a  dozen  times.  Poe  was  weeks 
at  "The  Raven,"  but  we  need  not  multiply  instances  to  prove  the  truth  of 
Sheridan's  remark,  that  "easy  writing's  dashed  hard  reading."  It  is  this 
truth  that  we  would  impress  upon  Misses  Blount  and  Sinclair.  Do  we  say 
their  verses  arc  "hard  reading?"  We  do  not.  But  we  confidently  declare 
that  they  must  work  more  patiently  at  their  verses,  they  must  read  more 
and  reflect  more,  or  they  will  never  win  the  guerdon  of  the  highest  success. 
We  have  promised  that  we  would  not  seek  for  defects  in  these  volumes,  but 
candor  compels  us  to  say  that  many  of  Miss  Blount's  and  Miss  Sinclair's  pieces 
appear  to  have  been  wrought  as  rapidly  as  garments  are  now  made  by  the 
sewing-machine — let  us  say  Singer's,  as  the  name  favors  the  illustration — and 
one  or  two  expressions,  which  have  struck  our  eye  in  turning  over  the  leaves, 
must  be  referred  to,  in  the  way  of  enforcing  our  k-sson.  Miss  Blount  is  very 
fond  of  the  phrase  "a  bird  of  plumaged  wing."  It  seems  to  be  a  pet  phrase, 
for  she  uses  it  in  connection  with  her  darling  "  Carrie  Bell "  (probably  Sin- 
clair), and  it  occurs  more  than  once  again  in  her  volume.  Now,  it  appears  to 
us  that  a  little  reflection  would  have  assured  her  that  a  more  unhappy  expres- 
sion she  could  hardly  have  hit  upon.  There  is  no  such  participle  in  the  lan- 
guage as  "plumaged,"  and  if  there  were,  "a  bird  of  plumaged  wing"  would 
mean  only  a  bird  whose  wings  were  feathered,  and  as  all  birds  are  winged 
and  their  wings  are  always  of  feathers  (the  bat  furnishes  the  sole  exception, 
and  the  bat  is  hardly  a  bird),  the  phrase  "  a  bird  of  plumaged  wing "  is 
tautological,  and  means  no  more  than  a  bird  after  all.     As  a  bird,  it  must 


A.   R.   BLOUNT    AND    C.   B.   SINCLAIR  419 

have  wings,  and  these  wings  must  be  " plumaged."  If  she  had  said  a  "bird 
of  snowy  wing,-'  or  "a  bird  of  ebon  wing,"  here  a  distinct  idea  would  have 
been  presented  to  the  mind.  Again  we  think  a  very  little  reflection  would 
have  convinced  Miss  Sinclair  of  the  bad  taste  of  wishing  to  be  her  lover's 
cigar  (see  page  37) ;  either  she  would  have  omitted  the  poem,  or  wished  to 
be  his  meerschaum  cigar-holder.  But  we  must  forbear.  It  would  have  been 
a  far  more  pleasant  and  easy  thing  for  us  to  have  bestowed  unqualified  praise 
upon  these  poems,  but  this  would  have  been  uncandid  in  us  and  an  injustice 
to  the  authors,  since  they  should  be  told  of  their  deficiencies.  We  should  be 
exceedingly  glad  to  receive  from  each  of  them,  some  months  hence,  a  second 
volume  of  half  the  size  of  these  respectively,  containing  such  better  verse 
in  less  quantity,  as  we  think  they  could  write,  with  greater  care  and  severe 
self-criticism. 

WHAT   THE   MOON   SHINES   ON. 

BY  ANNIE  R.  BLOUNT. 

A    PRIZE    POEM. 

Faces  of  beauty  in  festive  throngs, 

Lit  up  with  music,  and  mirth,  and  songs ; 

Eyes  of  bewildering,  varying  hue — 

Seldom  on  spirits  sincere  and  true — 

Jewelled  bosoms  and  Parian  brow, 

Jesting  salute  and  courtly  bow 

There,  but  alas !  not  there  alone, 

Are  some  of  the  scenes  that  the  moon  shines  on. 

Soft  falling  veil,  and  a  bridal  wreath 
Hiding  a  struggling  heart  beneath  ; 
Altar  prepared,  and  a  victim-bride, 
Sacrificed  for  some  kinsman's  pride  ; 
Falsely  vowing  to  love  and  obey, 
While  her  truant  heart  is  away,  away  ; 
ner  jewelled  hand  clasped  in  one  more  warm, 
"While  close  to  her  side  stands  an  unseen  form  ! 

Hark  !  'tis  a  spirit-voice  she  bears, 
While  her  lashes  conceal  the  coining  tears; 


420  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Is  it  the  one  which  blessed  her  youth, 
Ere  gold  had  purchased  her  woman's  truth  ? 
Nay  !  'twas  only  a  moonbeam  spoke 
Words  to  a  heart  that  was  well-nigh  broke: 
Sad  are  the  scenes  I'm  doomed  to  sec, 
Maiden,  I  weep  while  I  gaze  on  thee. 

A  bower  of  roses — a  youthful  pair 

Learning  their  first  love-lesson  there  ; 

Soft  hands  clasped,  and  eyes  cast  down 

To  hide  a  blush,  not  a  gathering  frown. 

Ah  !  the  moon  would  smile  if  she  did  not  know 

That  human  love  so  oft  brings  woe; 

That  those  who  listen  and  most  believe, 

Must  learn  that  the  fondest  ones  deceive. 

A  coffin  black — and  a  young  bride  there, 
With  the  white  flowers  still  in  her  shining  hair  ; 
Her  hands  clasped  over  a  bosom  chill, 
Where  the  diamond  glitters  proudly  still. 
Smiles  on  the  lips,  where  the  kiss  of  love 
Is  lingering  yet,  though  they  ne'er  may  move — 
O  God !  how  they  pray  for  a  tone,  a  breath, 
From  the  pale  lips  closed  with  the  seal  of  death. 

A  pallet  of  rags  in  a  corner  lying, 

Catching  the  breath  of  the  faint  and  dying ; 

No  pillow  to  ease  the  aching  head — 

A  pitcher  of  water — a  crust  of  bread. 

Curtains  of  rags  of  various  hue, 

Where  the  keen  north  wind  comes  whistling  through  : 

No  watcher  to  tell  when  life's  sands  run  out — 

Only  the  moon  on  her  midnight  route. 

No  sound  of  music,  no  tone  of  mirth  ; 
A  cold,  bare  room,  and  a  clean,  bare  hearth ; 
A  handful  of  ashes,  and  children's  despair, 
Crying  because  no  warmth  is  there ; 


A.   R.   BLOUNT    AND    C.   B.   SINCLAIR.  421 

Uncombed  hair,  and  small  naked  feet 
That  have  paced  all  day  the  snow-clad  street; 
Nursed  by  hunger,  and  want,  and  pain — 
Asking  for  alms,  but  alas !  in  vain. 

A  sickly  light — an  uncarpeted  room, 
Shrouded  in  poverty's  darkening  gloom ; 
No  picture  to  brighten  the  naked  wall, 
Or  gladden  when  tears  unheeded  fall. 
A  weary  woman  in  want  and  dirt, 
Singing  again  the  "  song  of  the  shirt ;" 
Wearily  toiling  for  life — for  bread, 
While  the  cold  night  lamps  die  out  overhead. 

A  single  candle  of  sickly  beam — 

Dreary  abode  for  a  poet's  dream ! 

A  fair  young  maiden  with  struggling  soul, 

Breathing  her  life  in  a  glowing  scroll ; 

Fashioning  thoughts  that  have  filled  her  brain 

With  beauty  that  made  her  forget  life's  pain, 

Imparting  to  paper  a  music  sweet, 

While  her  hands  glide  over  the  snowy  sheet; 

Dreaming  that  he  may  read  her  song. 
And  sigh  because  of  her  early  wrong  ; 
Catching  in  momentary  pause, 
A  far,  faint  sound  of  the  world's  applause. 
But  the  hectic  spot  blooms  on  her  cheek, 
And  the  hacking  cough  is  low  and  weak.; — 
Yes ;  fame  will  come — when  the  willows  wave 
Their  graceful  boughs  o^er  a  nameless  grave. 

Hush !  'tis  the  dice-box — oh  !  no  not  there, 
See  the  ghastly  face  and  the  wild  despair ! 
The  greedy  clutch  of  the  winning  one, 
The  maniac  glance  of  the  wretch  undone  : 


422  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Think  of  the  weeping  sister  and  mother. 
Mourning  the  crimes  of  a  son  and  a  brother  ; 
Fortune,  and  truth,  and  honor  gone, 
Are  some  of  the  scenes  the  moon  shines  on. 


Hark !  'tis  the  sound  of  wild  revelry, 
The  wine-cup  sparkles  and  floweth  free, 
Wreathed  with  roses,  but  bearing  beneath 
A  hideous  serpent  whose  name  is — Death ! 
Hear  the  ribald  jest,  and  the  laughter  loud, 
And  the  boisterous  mirth  of  a  reckless  crowd  ;— 
The  moon  smiles  never  on  such  a  spot : 
Nor  Virtue — her  very  name  'a  forgot. 

Not  there! — not  there! — 'tis  the  gilded  hall, 
Where  Satan  gloats  over  our  race's  fall ; 
Sin  hides  under  that  polished  floor, 
And  faces  are  there  that  blush  no  more : 
The  painted  cheek  and  lip  are  there, 
Striving  to  hide  the  soul's  despair. — 
Oh !  the  laugh  which  rings  on  the  listening  ear, 
Is  mirth  from  the  whited  sepulchre ! 

Stars  of  heaven !  I  would  not  be  ye, 
Too  dark  are  the  scenes  that  you  often  see ; 
Moon !  I  envy  you  not  your  light, 
It  falleth  too  often  on  woe  and  blight. 
Perjured  soul  and  a  broken  vow, 
Crushed  heart  hid  by  a  smiling  brow  ; 
Sin-cursed  soul,  and  an  oily  tongue, 
Gloating  o'er  tears  from  beauty  wrung — 
Virtue  crushed  down  by  iron  heel, 
Fortune  with  ever  turning  wheel, 

Raising  proud  vice  to  an  earthly  throne, 
While  the  honest  poor  weep  and  die  alone. 


A.   R.    BLOUNT    AND    C.   B.   SINCLAIR.  423 

Secret  crimes  reached  not  by  law, 

Hearts  where  the  canker-worms  always  gnaw — 

Bridal  favors — and  funeral  pall — 

Watched  by  the  God  who  loves  us  all : 

These — and  the  tale  is  not  yet  done — 

Are  some  of  the  scenes  that  the  moon  shines  on. 


DREAMING. 

BY  CARRIE  BELL  SINCLAIR. 

Dreaming  a  dream  of  long  ago, 
Of  a  brow  as  cold  as  the  winter  snow  ; 
Dreaming  of  lips  that  pressed  my  own ; 
Dreaming  of  joys  that  all  have  flown  ; 
Dreaming  of  hands  that  lie  at  rest, 
Over  a  cold  and  pulseless  breast ; 
Dreaming,  idly  dreaming  on — 
"What  are  these  idle  dreams  to  me? 

Dreaming  of  eyes  that  meet  my  gaze 
Through  the  dusky  shadows  of  by -gone  days ; 
Dreaming  of  words  that  filled  my  ear 
When  the  form  of  a  lover  lingered  near; 
Dreaming  of  what  he  said  to  me, 
As  he  clasped  my  hand  on  bended  knee; 
Dreaming  of  vows  that  then  were  spoken; 
Dreaming  Of  vows  that  now  are  broken ; 
Oh  !   what  are  these  dreams  to  me  ? 

1  learning  of  music  half  forgot, 
That  lingered  one  eve  in  a  shady  spot ; 
Dreaming  a  dream  of  an  olden  time, 
Filling  my  soul  with  its  merry  chime. 
Dreaming  again  of  by-gone  years; 
Dreaming  of  smiles  ;  dreaming  of  tears; 

Dreaming,  idly  dreaming  on — 
What  are  all  these  dreams  to  me? 


424  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH 

Dreaming  now  of  the  homestead  dear, 
Of  the  father  who  sat  in  the  old  arm-chair ; 
Dreaming  of  soft  blue  skies  that  smiled 
So  lovingly  there  when  I  was  a  child ; 
Dreaming  of  things  that  meet  my  gaze 
Through  the  dusky  shadows  of  by-gone  days. 

Dreaming,  idly  dreaming  on — 
What  are  these  dreams  to  me  ? 

Dreaming  of  shady  sunny  bowers ! 

Dreaming  of  music,  song,  and  flowers; 

Dreaming  o'er  tales  of  love  I  told 

Ere  my  brow  grew  sad,  and  my  heart  grew  old ; 

Dreaming  a  dream  by  the  moon  to-night ; 

Dreaming  a  dream,  oh !  wondrous  bright ; 

Dreaming  a  dream  as  fair  as  truth, 

Too  sweet  to  fade  with  the  hopes  of  youth. 

Dreaming  again  of  the  homestead  dear, 
Of  the  pale,  cold  forms  that  slumber  there; 
Dreaming  of  things  that  meet  my  gaze 
Through  the  dusky  shadows  of  by-gone  days ; 
Dreaming  to-night  of  other  years ; 
Dreaming  of  smiles  ;  dreaming  of  tears ; 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  on — 
When  will  these  weary  dreamings  end  ? 


LIZZIE  PETIT. 

Miss  Petit  was  born  in  Albemarle  County,  Virginia,  in  the 
once  flourishing  little  hamlet  of  Milton.  She  had  just  entered 
upon  her  second  year,  when  the  family  removed  to  an  old  home- 
stead, some  miles  distant,  which  they  called  "  The  Retreat." 
In  a  reminiscence  of  her  girlhood,  she  says : 

"'The  Retreat'  was  a  wild,  gloomy  and  romantic  spot, 
which  had  the  reputation  of  being  haunted,  and  my  first  recol- 
lections are  of  the  childish  curiosity  and  terror  with  which  I 
used  to  roam  through  the  long  corridors,  empty  rooms,  and 
large,  dark  closets,  which  the  legends  of  my  nurse  had  peopled 
with  phantoms.  Both  Milton  and  '  The  Retreat '  are  in  ruins 
now.  The  graveyard  of  the  former  place  is  the  only  inhabited 
portion  of  the  town ;  and  of  all  the  family  who  dwelt  beneath 
the  roof-tree  of  the  latter,  not  one  save  myself  is  left  on  earth. 
Over  my  early  life  was  cast  the  shadow  of  these  influences,  and 
the  brooding  wings  of  memory  too  soon  folded  themselves 
around  a  heart  whose  dearest  pulse-beats  were  the  requiems  of 
the  loved  and  lost." 

At  the  age  of  four  years,  Miss  Petit  was  left  an  orphan. 
After  the  death  of  her  best  friend — the  mother,  whose  tender 
care  had  ensphered  her  from  infancy — she  and  her  grand- 
mother abandoned  the  gloomy  "  Retreat,"  and  went  to  reside 
with  her  only  surviving  maternal  aunt,  who  had  been  recently 
left  a  widow.  But  her  grandmother,  burdened  with  the 
supervision  of  a  large  plantation,  and  her  aunt,  rich,  young 

425 


426  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

and  beautiful,  were  too  much  absorbed  in  their  own  pursuits  to 
give  to  the  rapidly  developing  child  that  wise  watch  and  cul- 
ture which  her  peculiar  temperament  demanded.  At  five  years 
she  was  sent  to  school,  and  soon  became  the  "  pet  prodigy " 
of  her  young  teacher,  whose  loving  discipline  she  will  ever 
gratefully  remember. 

Naturally  delicate,  however,  and  the  regime  of  the  school- 
room beginning  to  affect  her  health,  she  was  soon  removed, 
and  then  commenced  the  free,  wild,  random  life  of  her  child- 
hood. 

"  Brook  Farm,"  the  residence  of  her  aunt,  was  situated  in 
the  heart  of  the  most  beautiful  scenery  of  Virginia.  Deeply 
imbued  by  nature  with  romance,  our  author  spent  her  time  in 
rambling,  like  a  young  deer,  over  hill  and  dale,  and  devouring 
the  miscellaneous  contents  of  the  old  family  library.  Between 
the  years  of  six  and  twelve,  she  became  familiar  with  writers 
far  beyond  her  range,  floating  sometimes  on  dangerous  deeps 
of  impassioned  poetry  and  romance,  living  in  a  world  of  her 
own  emotions,  haunted  by  visions  of  ideal  beauty,  devoured 
with  longings  for  the  brilliant  future  which  her  imagination 
pictoed. 

At  twelve,  precocious  in  mind,  heart,  and  physique,  she  was 
transferred  to  the  care  of  an  elderly  relative — a  widow  and 
childless,  but  quite  remarkable  for  the  tact  and  judgment  which 
she  had  displayed  in  the  rearing  of  several  adopted  children. 
••  My  venerable  monitress,"  says  Miss  Petit,  "  evidently  thought 
there  had  been  some  serious  errors  in  the  training  of  her  new 
charge,  and  set  herself  to  work  to  correct  them  with  a  vigor 
and  severity  which,  I  fear,  had  quite  the  contrary  effect." 

She  was  then  placed  for  a  year  or  two  under  the  excellent 
guidance  of  Dr.  White,  a  well  known  southern  divine,  then  the 
head  of  a  flourishing  young  ladies'  seminary  in  Charlottesville, 
Virginia.     But  the  tameless  spirit,  which  had  been  ripening  in 


LIZZIE    PETIT.  427 

a  school  of  its  own  for  go  many  years,  continued  to  assert  itself, 
and,  at  fourteen,  Miss  Petit  entered  society. 

Merged  in  a  sea  of  excitement,  all  systematic  study  was,  of 
course,  suspended ;  but  as  seasons  wore  away,  and  with  them 
the  first  glamour  of  a  social  career — as  our  youthful  belle  found 
her  springs  of  pleasure  yielding  sometimes  bitter  waters — her 
fair  flowers  withering  as  she  plucked  them — she  addressed  her- 
self with  a  new  zest  to  the  culture  of  her  intellect. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  mood,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  she 
produced  her  first  book,  "  Light  and  Darkness,"  which  was 
published  by  the  Appletons,  had  a  large  sale  in  .this  country, 
was  republished  successfully  in  London,  and  translated  into 
French. 

In  this  book  the  author  goes  over  the  social  ground  she  has 
traversed,  delineating  fashionable  life  with  the  sharp  and  clear- 
cut  lines  of  one  who  has  proved  its  follies  and  its  perils.  As 
we  read,  the  wonder  grows  that  a  girl  of  nineteen  could  be  so 
thoroughly  the  woman  of  the  world — so  perfectly  aufait  of  the 
artificialities  and  hollowness,  the  by-play  and  intrigue  of  the 
bt.au  monde.  We  cannot  help  feeling  sorrowful  for  the  veil  so 
early  torn  away — for  the  beautiful  dreams  prematurely  dis- 
pelled— for  the  fair  young  face  and  the  old  young  heart.  The 
same  regret  is  clearly  an  underlying  current  of  the  book.  Our 
author  misses  the  sweet  time  of  waitintj  and  watching,  which, 
by  a  delicate  provision,  reveals  life  step  by  step  to  the  neophyte. 
At  the  close  of  a  lively  chapter  in  this,  her  first  volume,  she 
thus  wearily  moralizes : 

"  How  the  inner  life  mocks  the  outer !  Even  as  I  write 
these  careless  lines,  I  feel  as  if  the  spell  of  death  was  upon  me ; 
I  seem  to  hear  his  stealthy  footsteps  in  the  dark  distance,  slowly 
but  surely  coming.  It  struggles  in  my  veins  with  the  warm 
bounding  life-blood  of  youth.  Which  shall  triumph  ?  Is  this 
death-shadow  a  dream   or  a  reality  ?     I  gaze  on  the  autumn 


428  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

leaves  as  on  a  scroll  which  memory  lays  open  before  me  :  telling 
of  bright  flowers  dead  in  the  pathway  of  life,  as  of  Nature ;  of 
bright  hopes,  dying  even  as  these  leaves,  in  a  heart  too  early 
doomed  to  taste  the  fruits  of  destiny.  The  breeze  wailing 
through  the  forest  oaks,  whispers,  '  Passing  away — all  earthly 
things  are  passing  away  ;'  and  I,  loneliest  of  all  earth's  lonely 
children,  why  should  I  stay  ?  A  stray  waif  on  life's  wild 
waters — a  single  blossom  on  a  leafless  tree,  clinging  dependent, 
with  naught  to  rest  upon. 

"  The  world  courts  our  society — it  woos  our  smiles,  while  we 
minister  to  its  pleasures  ;  while  the  gay  laugh  is  on  our  lip,  the 
light  word  on  our  tongue,  it  is  willing  to  share  our  gaiety,  for 
gaiety  ever  throws  an  atmosphere  of  warmth  and  sunshine 
around  it ;  but  the  bitter  tear,  the  moan  bursting  from  a  sur- 
charged heart,  these  must  be  indulged  alone." 

One  year  after  the  appearance  of  "  Light  and  Darkness," 
Miss  Petit  gave  to  the  world  another  work,  entitled  "  House- 
hold Mysteries."  This  volume,  prepared  very  hastily,  upon  the 
impulse  of  her  first  success,  is  not  quite  in  the  line  of  advance, 
but  has  been  received  with  favor,  and  widely  circulated. 

Our  author  has  now  in  preparation  a  "  Society  Novel," 
which  she  considers  her  chef  (Vc&uvre.  It  is  to  be  called  "  The 
Stars  of  the  Crowd,  or  Men  and  Women  of  the  Day,"  and  will 
doubtless  contain  something  of  personal  interest  to  every  reader. 

Miss  Petit  deserves  great  commendation  for  her  untiring 
and  energetic  industry.  Thrown  very  early  upon  her  own 
resources,  she  has  brought  them  all  into  action,  and  shown  her- 
self capable  of  a  rigorous  and  self-denying  application,  of  which 
neither  the  wild  days  of  her  girlhood  nor  the  gay,  fashionable, 
phase  which  succeeded,  gave  the  remotest  promise. 

In  consequence  of  an  accident  which  imperilled  her  bfe,  and 
confined  her  for  months  to  her  bed,  she  turned  her  attention  for 
awhile  to  dramatic  reading,  and  upon  her  recovery,  by  the 


LIZZIE    PETIT.  429 

invitation  of  some  of  our  leading  literary  men,  appeared  before 
a  New  York  audience  as  a  dramatic  reader.  The  "  New  York 
Tribune  "  thus  notices  the  occasion  : 


According  to  previous  announcement,  and,  "in  compliance  with  the 
invitation  of  many  distinguished  citizens,"  Miss  Lizzie  Petit  gave  a  dra- 
matic reading  on  Thursday  evening,  at  Dodworth's  Hall.  The  dollar 
admission  weeded  the  parterre  of  all  seedy  plants ;  and  the  audience  was 
an  elegant  one.  A  pleasing  feature  in  the  programme  was  the  introduc- 
tion of  various  selections  of  light  music,  performed  by  Dodworth's  band. 
The  entertainment  consisted  of  two  readings  from  Shakspeare,  Bulwer's 
poem  "The  AVife's  Tragedy,"  a  translation  from  the  Spanish,  and  one  of 
Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures.  As  a  general  truth,  truism  indeed,  dra- 
matic readings  do  sadly  bore  the  listener;  especially  if  the  reader  be  a 
woman.  For  if  she  has  not  a  great  and  exceptional  degree  of  dramatic 
genius,  she  will  be  tame;  if  she  is  fired  by  the  genius,  she  will  lie  ham- 
pered by  the  restraint  of  the  lecture-room,  and  the  beauty  of  fitness  will 
be  wanting  in  the  performance.  Decidedly  the  most  agreeable  of  the 
female  readers  are  they  who  have  a  quiet,  drawing-room  style  of  delivery, 
added  to  an  attractive  face  and  form.  All  enjoy  the  sight  of  beauty  of 
any  species,  but  of  feminine  beauty  most.  And  when  one  can  have  an 
excellent  excuse  for  sitting  through  an  entire  evening,  gazing  in  a  lady's 
eyes,  particularly  if  the  eyes  are  brilliant,  he  will  put  severe  criticism 
behind  him,  and  will  be  apt  to  go  again.  In  this  remark  may  be  found 
a  hint  of  Miss  Lizzie  Petit's  success.  It  will  not  be  considered  extravagant 
praise  to  say,  that  she  is  superior  to  the  countless  majority  of  Shak- 
spearean  readers  below  Mrs.  Kemble.  AYhereas  in  them  we  so  often  have 
noise  without  anything  more,  in  Miss  Pettit  we  have  no  noise  and  much 
Inside.  Agreeable  in  voice,  winning  in  manners,  charming  in  personal 
appearance,  and  with  the  governing  taste  of  an  intelligent  woman,  she  will 
make  a  successful  tour  about  the  country  as  a  public  reader.  She  will 
attract  by  her  beauty,  and  will  never  repel  by  the  coarse  and  corrupt  elocu- 
tion with  which  a  suffering  public  has  been  too  much  tormented. 


430  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


BENEDICK  THE  MARRIED  MAN. 

It  was  one  of  those  fair,  bright  days,  which  sometimes  smile  upon  us  in 
that  month  of  "  cloud  and  storm,"  November.  Over  the  ordinarily  busy 
city  of  Gotham,  reigned  that  solemn  air  of  decorous  quiet,  which  is  peculiar 
to  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  Sabbath.  The  lofty  spire  of  Trinity  seemed 
to  hide  its  head  amid  the  fleecy  clouds  which  hung  suspended  from  the  clear 
blue  sky;  as  if  it  sought  to  bear  aloft  the  rich  full  notes  of  music,  which 
swelled  through  the  stately  dome  below.  In  one  of  the  richly  furnished 
pews  of  the  church,  sat  Florence  Fulton  and  Judge  Woodward.  The  head 
of  the  latter  was  bent  reverently,  for  he  was  a  man  of  prayer,  a  man  whose 
religious  sentiments  were  lofty,  sincere,  and  open.  Not  so  with  his  com- 
panion ;  her  eyes  wandered  over  rich  velvets  and  waving  plumes,  over  pious 
saint  and  decorous  sinner,  and  at  last  rested  in  a  dreamy  gaze  on  the  stained 
glass  windows,  while  her  ear  drank  in  passionately  the  rich  tide  of  swelling 
music,  which  rolled  in  waves  of  melody  through  the  dim  arches  and  proud 
old  dome  of  Trinity. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  reverie  by  a  slight  stir  in  the  aisle ;  and  the 
next  moment  she  saw  Claude  St.  Julian  enter  a  pew  nearly  opposite  her  own 
— a  lady  of  small,  slight  figure  leaning  on  his  arm. 

Her  features  were  concealed  by  the  thick  veil  she  wore,  but  when  she 
removed  it  after  taking  her  seat,  Florence  saw  that  her  face  was  fair,  but 
pale,  almost  to  a  sickly  wanness;  her  features  delicate,  but  wearing  an 
expression  of  listless  despondency,  painful  to  look  on  in  one  young,  and 
otherwise  pretty.  She  held  by  the  hand  a  little  girl  of  some  five  summers, 
so  fair,  so  bewitchingly  beautiful,  and  yet  so  fragile,  so  spirituelle  in  appear- 
ance, that  the  eyes  of  Florence  wandered  involuntarily  from  the  mother,  to 
gaze  with  delight,  mingled  with  painful  interest,  on  the  child.  It  was  the 
face  of  an  angel  rather  than  a  human  being,  and  in  that  face  were  mingled 
all  the  fairy  tints  of  summer  heaven ;  the  soft,  serene  blue  of  the  sky  in  the 
eyes;  the  fleecy  white,  and  the  rose-tinged  hues  of  the  evening  clouds  in  the 
exquisite  complexion ;  and  the  golden  tints  of  sunset  in  the  shining  hair.  It 
was  a  feast  to  the  artist  soul  of  Florence,  to  gaze  on  the  unconscious 
little  being,  as  she  sat  there  with  calm,  reverential  look,  her  tiny  hands 
clasping  her  prayer-book ;  her  childish  accents  lisping  the  prayer,  a  halo  of 
innocence  and  loveliness  encircling  her.  "  Who  could  they  be,  that  mother 
and  child?"  for  such  was  the  position  they  seemed  to  occupy  toward  each 


LIZZIE    PETIT.  431 

other.  Perhaps  the  lady  was  a  relative  of  Claude?  perhaps  she  was  a 
widow  ?  and  a  pang  of  jealousy  shot  through  her  frame ;  for  everyhody 
knows  widows  are  proverbially  dangerous.  She  glanced  at  her  dress ; 
though  grave,  almost  sombre  in  hue,  it  was  not  mourning ;  and  the  next 
moment  she  smiled  at  her  own  folly,  in  supposing  for  a  moment  that  the  pos- 
sessor of  that  face — with  its  cold,  marble-like  features,  and  listlessly  mourn- 
ful expression — could  fascinate  the  gay,  degage  St.  Julian.  Still  she  felt 
aroused  within  her  all  the  latent  power  of  that  feeling,  whose  fatal  indul- 
gence in  our  first  mother,  lost  Paradise  to  her  unhappy  children ;  and  we 
fear  the  services  of  that  day  were  of  little  profit  to  Florence.  Nor  was 
she  the  only  one  in  that  still,  decorous  crowd  of  beauty,  wealth,  and 
fashion,  by  whom  the  solemn  services  they  had  nominally  assembled  to 
hear,  were  unheeded.  Many  a  velvet-robed  bosom  throbbed  with  feelings 
far  different  from  those  of  devotion — to  heaven  at  least ;  many  a  fair  head 
beneath  its  waving  plumes  was  filled  with  far  different  thoughts  from 
those  which  the  place  and  the  occasion  should  have  inspired.  Immedi- 
ately behind  that  of  Florence  was  the  Moreton  pew.  It  was  in  vain  that 
Eva  endeavored  to  compose  her  thoughts  into  their  usual  serene,  devo- 
tional frame — in  vain  that  she  tried  to  listen  with  attentive  earnestness  to 
those  sublime  truths,  those  divine  doctrines  of  life  and  love,  which  gene- 
rally awoke  so  deep  an  echo  in  her  grateful  heart ;  with  pain  she  felt  her 
thoughts  revert  to  other  and  earthly  objects — to  objects,  too,  upon  which 
she,  alas !  had  no  right  to  fix  them.  Before  her  was  the  man  who  had 
awakened  every  feeling  of  love  her  young  heart  had  ever  known ;  and 
by  his  side  was  her  rival,  her  regal  charms  set  off  to  the  greatest  advan- 
tage by  the  most  tasteful  and  exquisite  toilet. 

"  That  adornment,  rich  and  rare, 
Which  makes  the  mighty  magnet  set 
In  woman's  form  more  mighty  yet." 

She  had  often  heard  Judge  Woodward  express  his  admiration  for  a 
pretty  hand.  She  saw  the  fair  hand  of  Florence,  whose  delicate  beauty, 
and  soft,  creamy  whiteness,  seemed  to  woo  the  beholder  to  touch  its  vel- 
vety softness;  she  saw  that  little  hand — upon  which  glittered  a  single  dia- 
mond of  intense  lustre — resting  coquettishly  on  the  crimson  velvet  cushion, 
which  enhanced  its  whiteness;  and  she  saw  the  eyes  of  Judge  Woodward 
riveted  admiringly  upon  it.  What  wonder  that  the  scene  swain  before 
her,  and  a  painful  sickening  sensation  thrilled  through  her  frame  '. 


432  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  had  she  known  how  little  Florence  cared  for  being  beside  her, 
aside  from  the  gratification  she  felt  at  the  open  homage  of  so  distinguished 
a  man;  had  she  known  how  few  thoughts  she  gave  him  in  return  for  the 
devotion  he  lavished  upon  her,  would  it  have  afforded  her  any  consola- 
tion? No,  she  would  but  have  felt  more  deeply  pained,  to  see  that 
noble  heart  sacrifice  its  dearest  feelings — those  feelings  so  lofty,  so  deep, 
so  true,  on  an  ungrateful  shrine.  She  hoped  that  Florence  loved  him — 
how  could  she  help  loving  him  ?  was  he  not  the  very  man  to  call  forth 
the  feelings  of  her  proud  ambitious  nature ;  to  awaken  the  love  of  her 
warm,  enthusiastic  heart  ?  And  with  one  sigh  for  her  own  lonely  life, 
Eva  bent  her  head  on  her  cushion,  and  prayed  fervently  for  his — for  their 
happiness. 

The  stranger  lady  noticed  the  eager,  though  not  impertinent  gaze,  which 
Florence  fixed  upon  her ;  and  as  she  read  the  manifest  interest  expressed 
in  that  look,  particularly  for  the  child,  her  pale  features  assumed  more  an 
expression  of  life.  Claude,  too,  saw  that  gaze ;  as  he  marked  it,  a  shade, 
half  of  haughty  impatience,  half  of  melancholy,  swept  over  his  features. 
As  they  passed  out,  after  the  conclusion  of  the  services,  Florence,  who  was 
on  the  qui  vine,  distinctly  heard  the  stranger  lady  say,  in  soft,  low  tones: 
"Claude,  who  is  that  beautiful  woman  who  has  just  passed  us?"  His 
reply  was  lost  as  the  crowd  moved  between  them. 

Scarcely  able  to  repress  her  impatience  until  they  reached  the  carriage, 
the  first  question  of  Florence  then  was : 

"Who  was  that  lady  with  Mr.  St.  Julian,  at  church  ?" 

"  His  wife.  Have  you  never  seen  her  before  ?  However,  it  is  not 
strange,  she  goes  out  so  little." 

"His  wife!"  almost  screamed  poor  Florence.  "Is  Claude — is  Mr.  St. 
Julian  a  married  man  '." 

"  Certainly  !  Is  it  possible  you  did  not  know  it  ?  He  has  been —  but  par- 
don me,  you  are  ill  ?" 

"  No,  only  a  passing  spasm  at  the  heart,  to  which  I  am  at  times  subject ; 
it  will  be  over  in  a  moment,"  and  she  made  a  violent  effort  to  recover  her- 
self; though  when  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  changed,  and  she  was  pale  as 
death. 

"  How  long  has  Mr.  St.  Julian  been  married  ?"  she  summoned  up  nerve 
to  say. 

"  Oh  !  some  years.  It  was  a  boy  and  girl  match,  I  believe.  I  am  glad  to 
see  Mrs.  St.  Julian  out ;  it  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  her  at  church  since 


LIZZIE    PETIT.  433 

their  return  from  Europe  ;  or  rather  since  his  return,  for  she  did  not  accom- 
pany him." 

"Did  not  accompany  him!"  echoed  Florence,  almost  betraying  by  her 
eager  questions  the  interest  she  felt.     "  Was  he  not  absent  several  years  ?" 

"  About  three  years,  I  think.  Mr.  St.  Julian  has  not  the  reputation  of 
being  the  most  devoted  of  husbands ;  so  I  suppose  the  separation  was  not  a 
grievous  one,  to  him,  at  least." 

"  And  she — his  wife — remained  in  New  York  ?" 

"  No,  with  her  mother,  at  New  Haven,  I  believe.  My  dear  Miss  Fulton, 
you  seem  interested  in  Mrs.  St.  Julian." 

("  Mrs.  St.  Julian !"  what  a  name  that  was  to  her.) 

"  No  !  oh,  no !  nothing  but  woman's  curiosity,"  she  replied,  with  an 
effort  at  equivocation  that  caused  her  cheek  to  burn  ;  and  pulling  the  check- 
string,  she  desired  the  coachman  to  drive  faster,  though  he  was  then  going 
at  almost  furious  speed. 

What  was  the  agony  she  endured  in  the  effort  to  suppress  her  feelings 
during  that  short  ride  home !  When  the  carriage  stopped  at  her  own  door. 
Judge  Woodward  assisted  her  to  alight,  and  was  about  to  follow  her  into  the 
house,  but  she  could  endure  his  presence  no  longer. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure !"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "  I  am  quite 
indisposed.     Any  other  time  I  shall  be  happy  " 

"  Of  course.  Judge  Woodward  regretted  very  much  that  Miss  Fulton 
found  herself  so  unwell ;"  a  stately  bow,  and  he  was  gone ;  and  Florence 
breathed  freer,  and  walked  with  a  hurried  step  to  her  own  room,  locked  her- 
self in  it,  and  hastily  throwing  aside  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  as  if  their 
weight  was  suffocating — so  hastily,  that  in  removing  the  former,  she  pulled 
down  the  whole  mass  of  her  beautiful  hair,  which  fell  dishevelled,  but 
unheeded,  around  her — she  paced  wildly  to  and  fro  the  room  for  half  an  hour, 
without  pausing  for  an  instant ;  her  hands  clasped  tightly  over  her  throbbing 
bosom,  her  lips  and  cheeks  scarlet  with  agitation.  How  wildly  the  waves  of 
disappointment  and  despair  rolled  through  her  storm-tossed  soul  in  that 
wretched  half  hour  can  only  be  imagined  by  those  impassioned  beings,  who, 
like  her,  have  staked  the  heart's  most  cherished  feelings  on  the  throw  of  a 
single  die — and,  like  her,  lost.  After  the  first  torrent  of  emotion  had  sub- 
sided, bitter  regrets  for  the  manner  in  which  she  had  acted  with  Claude  tor- 
mented her  already  distracted  brain.  Had  she  not  almost  wooed  him  to  her 
side  ?  Had  she  not  evidently  in  her  manner  showed  the  greatest  preference 
for  his  society — neglected,  nay,  almost  shunned  others,  when  he  was  near  ? 

28 


434  WOMEN    OF    THE   SOUTH. 

had  he  not,  (luring  the  short  period  of  his  acquaintance  with  her,  heen  ever 
by  her  side,  and,  though  never  breathing  a  word  of  love,  lavishing  a  thou- 
sand lover-like  attentions  on  her?  And  what  would  the  world  say  to  this 
marked  flirtation  with  a  married  man?  But  after  all,  with  her  usual 
haughty  scorn  for  the  opinions  of  society,  she  felt  that  the  "  world's  dread 
sneer"  was  nothing,  compared  with  this  sudden  crushing  of  her  deepest 
feelings ;  this  total  destruction  of  the  bright  hopes  which  one  short  hour 
before  were  blooming  so  brightly  and  freshly  around  her.  Bitter  indeed 
to  her  was  the  awakening  from  love's  sweet  dream  of  madness.  The  light- 
ning blight  had  fallen  on  the  enchanted  garden  of  the  heart's  paradise, 
Masting  every  bud  and  blossom  there;  and  now,  what  was  left?  Her 
heart  refused  to  answer  the  question.  Had  he  not  already  read  her  secret? 
Though  lip  had  not  answered  to  lip,  had  not  her  eyes,  her  tell-tale  eyes, 
returned  full  often  the  lava  flood-tide  which  had  poured  from  his  own 
into  her  inmost  soul?  Could  she  but  forget  it;  but  sink  into  a  deep, 
dreamless  sleep,  to  wake  utterly  oblivious  of  the  past ;  of  all  bygone  hopes, 
of  all  present  feelings,  fears,  despair ! 

Such  wild,  incoherent  thoughts  as  these,  dashed  madly  and  tumultu- 
ously  through  her  soul.  There  was  but  one  resource  on  earth  for  her ; 
the  sparkling  cup  of  pleasure  yet  wooed  her  fevered  lip  ;  vanity  still  whis- 
pered, "Drink,  drink  deeper  still,  of  the  magic  draught;  it  will  bring 
forgetfulness ;  it  must  not  be  said  that  the  proud  Florence,  the  trium- 
phant, worshipped  belle,  mourns  over  a  broken  heart-dream."  No,  she 
must  be  gay,  proud,  triumphant  still ;  yea,  she  must  learn  to  look  on  him, 
and  tremble  not  beneath  his  gaze,  thrill  not  at  his  touch  ;  and  this  was  the 
hardest  task  of  all;  could  she  ever  accomplish  it?  Pride,  prudence,  all 
that  was  best  and  loftiest  in  woman's  soul,  must  come  to  her  aid.  She 
would  avoid  him ;  she  would  school  her  look  and  tone,  to  be  unto  him  as 
unto  others.  And  then,  when  she  had  untaught  her  heart  its  passion- 
dream,  what  then  ?  She  could  not  tell.  All  she  knew  was,  that  love  for 
him  was  guilt ;  all  she  felt,  was  the  horror  of  that  word. 


SAUJE    ADA    REEDY. 

Among  the  promising  young  poet-women  of  the  South, 
whose  writings  are  eminently  southern  in  manner  and  spirit, 
Miss  Reedy  takes  creditable  rank.  She  began  very  early  to 
write  verse  in  a  tender  and  musical  vein,  but  with  far  too 
much  earnestness  for  her  years.  Her  recent  productions  are 
the  utterances  of  a  more  clear,  and  calm,  and  self-contained 
womanhood. 

A  southern  editor,*  himself  a  poet  and — his  words  would 
seem  to  imply — a  mystic,  writes  thus  of  her  : 

"  There  breathes  in  all  her  writings  an  impassioned  devo- 
tion, intense  and  pure,  with  a  simplicity  tender  and  graceful. 
This  is  the  true  region  of  emotional  poet-life — the  human  in 
its  warmest  aspiration  for  the  supra-human  ideal.  Her  genius 
is  vigorous,  and  at  the  same  time  exquisitely  feminine — look- 
ing down  upon  life's  struggling  waters  from  woman's  head- 
land of  catholic  charity.  Mystery — the  nameless  and  never 
told — often  lends  a  spell,  dreary  yet  delicious,  to  her  muse. 
But  this  characteristic  is  always  subordinate  to  the  wealth  of 
her  creative  faculty." 

Miss  Reedy  is  possessed  of  fine  natural  gifts,  and,  having 
enjoyed  the  advantages  of  generous  and  careful  culture,  devotes 
her  future  advisedly  to  the  pursuits  of  literature.  Her  ver- 
sification is  easy  and  musical,  and  such  of  her  works  as  we 
have  seen,  bear  full  seeds  of  promise. 

Her  poems  have  been  published  in  the  various  periodical 
issues  of  the  South,  and  are  now  collected  into  a  volume, 
which  will  appear  simultaneously  with  our  own. 

*  J.  Wood  Davidson. 

485 


436  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


THE  RRIDAL. 

They  sat  within  the  moonlight — in  the  moonlight,  side  hy  side, 

Young  Ferdinand,  the  princely,  and  his  newly  promised  hride; 

You  would  have  thought  them  lovers,  for  the  dark  waves  of  his  hair 

Were  mingled  with  the  golden  ones  that  made  her  brow  so  fair, 

And  in  those  floating  tresses,  like  bright  angels  in  repose, 

Were  the  flowers  that  he  had  gathered  when  the  evening  star  arose ; 

It  was  a  place  and  season  fit  for  fair}',  god,  or  elf, 

And  you  would  have  thought  them  lovers  had  you  never  loved  yourself,  - 

Never  stood  with  one  most  precious  'neath  the  quiet  evening  skies, 

And  thought  the  angels  envied  you  the  love-light  in  her  eyes ; 

By  all  the  mem'ries  clinging  round  that  unforgotten  one, 

Without  a  vain  interpreter  your  heart  had  quickly  known 

That  woman  never  laid  a  hand,  as  cold  and  calm  as  hers, 

Within  the  hand  that  Love  had  made  its  guide  through  coming  years. 

Oh,  Ferdinand  !  some  angel  should  have  told  thee  to  beware, 

Of  the  lips  that  speak  so  calmly  when  the  soul  is  in  despair ; 

Thou  may'st  tell  thy  heart's  devotion  with  a  look  and  tone  divine, 

With  her  ringlets  on  thy  bosom,  and  her  small  hand  pressed  in  thine : 

But  by  that  quick  convulsion — by  the  pallor  on  her  brow, 

She  has  heard  that  language  spoken  by  a  dearer  one  than  thou ! 

You  may  woo  her  to  your  mansion — you  may  win  her  for  your  bride, 

And  yet  between  her  soul  and  thine  there  is  a  burning  tide, 

And  down  within  the  darkened  depths  of  that  unholy  stream, 

Is  lying,  cold  and  beautiful,  the  wreck  of  one  bright  dream. 

She  sat  within  the  moonlight — in  the  moonlight  there  alone, 

Without  a  tremor  on  her  lip,  though  Ferdinand  was  gone, 

Gone  with  a  bright  love  in  his  heart  that  could  no  warning  speak 

Of  one  who  scarcely  felt  his  kiss  upon  her  pallid  cheek. 

Oh  Woman  !  when  thy  lover  goes  and  leaves  no  throb  of  pain. 

Be  careful  of  thy  promises  when  ye  have  met  again  ! 

She  raised  her  small  hand  to  her  brow — a  hand  so  soft  and  fair. 

And  gently  took  the  roses  from  her  long  and  dewy  hair ; 

She  smiled — a  smile  not  all  of  hate,  nor  yet  of  hope  and  trust, 

It  came  again  when  those  bright  things  were  trampled  in  the  dust. 


SALLIE    ADA    REEDY.  437 

Hast  ever  seen  a  jewel  into  glittering  fragments  crushed? 

Hast  seen  a  harp-string  broken,  and  its  silvery  music  hushed  ? 

So  looked  the  lovely  lady  when  that  fearful  mood  was  past, 

And  those  sweet  tears  were  blessed  things,  although  they  were  the  last; 

So  looked  the  lovely  lady  then,  for  pride  a  recreant  proves, 

Whene'er  despair  unto  the  heart  speaks  of  the  thing  it  loves. 

"  My  beautiful  wild  dream ! — my  Claude ! 

How  can  I  see  thee  thus  depart, 
And  let  a  cruel  world  defraud 

Of  all  but  this  poor  breaking  heart! 
Can  sterner  duty's  proud  command 

Restrain  a  soul  that  will  be  free, 
Or  can  I  live  for  Ferdinand 

When  I  would  rather  die  for  thee ! 

"  That  voice  since  childhood  had  been  sweet, 

Until  he  knelt  one  summer  day — 
I  would  have  spurned  him  from  my  feet, 

But  that  his  head  was  turning  grey. 
I  cannot  tell  thee  of  his  theme — 

I  would  not  think  it  over  now, 
It  seemed  so  like  a  troubled  dream 

That  only  left  a  troubled  brow. 

"  They  tell  me  I  will  love  thee  less 

In  the  dull  future  that  must  be — 
That  time  will  teach  forgetfulness 

Of  all  that  I  have  lost  in  thee ! 
The  lip  is  false  that  tells  me  so, 

False  as  my  own  has  dared  to  be, 
When  giving  Ferdinand  a  vow 

My  heart  can  only  keep  for  thee. 


"•Yon  star  that  thou  hast  made  so  dear, 
N  going  down,  and  it  must  see 
The  last  fond  look — the  last  wild  tear 
That  I  will  give  to  love  and  thee. 


438  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

My  beautiful  wild  dream — depart! 

I  may  not  hear  the  tale  you  tell — 
They've  chosen  out  a  dull,  hard  part, 

And  I  must  learn  to  act  it  well. 

"  When  Ferdinand's  bright  jewels  glow 

Amid  the  tresses  of  my  hair, 
If  this  heart  trembles  can  he  know 

A  faded  rose  is  nestling  there? 
And  if,  perchance,  I  hear  thy  name 

From  lips  more  careless  than  my  own, 
He'll  see  my  pallid  cheek,  and  blame 

The  wind  that  has  unkindly  blown. 

"Thus,  hour  by  hour  and  day  by  day 

Will  come  that  slow  and  steady  change, 
And  when  they  mark  a  sure  decay, 

The'll  weep,  yet  scarcely  think  it  strange. 
It  is  a  common  thing  to  see 

A  woman  with  a  careworn  brow, 
And  they  will  never  think  of  thee, 

Or  of  my  poor  heart's  broken  vow." 

"  My  beautiful,  wild  dream  !" — she  pressed  her  lips  to  silence  then, 

For  suddenly  the  vesper  star  went  down  upon  that  scene, 

All  silently  and  radiantly  as  if  its  parting  beam 

Had  caught  the  farewell  lustre  of  that  lady's  dying  dream. 

And  when  that  signal  star  was  bright  once  more  on  sea  and  land 

She  stood  beneath  a  chandelier,  the  bride  of  Ferdinand. 

Bring  pity  for  that  fair  young  thing — in  all  her  after  years, 

She  will  not  know  a  joy  so  sweet  as  last  night's  holy  tears. 

Bring  pity  for  the  fair-haired  Claude! — he  will  not  soon  forget 

His  love  for  one  whom  it  were  well  if  he  had  never  met, 

But  oh !  for  him  whose  loving  heart  will  beg  for  love  in  vain, 

Pray  that  his  faith  in  human  truth  may  lovingly  remain  ; 

Poor  Ferdinand  ! — ten  thousand  joys  can  never  once  relieve 

The  heart  that  doubts  the  only  one  'twas  blissful  to  believe. 


L.   VIRGINIA   FRENCH. 

Mks.  French  is  descended  from  leading  families  of  Vir- 
ginia and  Pennsylvania.  She  was  born  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  the  "  Old  Dominion,"  at  the  fine  old  country  seat  of  her 
maternal  grandfather,  Captain  Thomas  Parker,  an  officer  in  the 
army  of  the  Revolution. 

Deprived,  at  a  very  early  age,  of  her  mother,  a  gentlewoman 
of  rare  beauty  and  excellence,  she  and  her  sister  were  sent  to 
Washington,  Pennsylvania,  to  be  educated  under  the  care  of 
their  grandmother.  Guided  and  guarded  by  this  truly  estima- 
ble woman — to  whom  our  author  confesses  herself  indebted 
for  her  best  points  of  character — they  completed  a  course  of 
study  at  the  female  seminary  of  that  place,  and  graduated 
with  the  first  honors. 

In  proof  of  Mrs.  French's  early  success  as  a  writer,  we 
remember  an  incident  related  of  her  school-days.  During  the 
exercises  which  completed  her  seminary  coarse,  as  she  rounded, 
in  clear,  musical  tones,  the  last  sentence  of  her  "  graduating 
composition,"  a  brusque  gentleman  from  Connecticut  exclaimed, 
"  "Who's  that  ?"  Upon  being  told  the  name  and  birthplace  of 
the  youthful  graduate,  he  responded,  bluntly,  "  "Well,  they  say 
'  no  good  can  come  out  of  Nazareth,'  but  here's  something  good 
out  of  "Wise's  district."  As  Mr.  "Wise  and  the  mother  of  the 
now  blushing  young  Virginian  were  connected  by  some  family 
ties,  this  spontaneous  tribute  was  received  with  much  merri- 
ment. 

489 


440  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

In  1848,  Virginia  and  her  sister  returned  to  their  father's 
house.  But  a  new  spirit  was  rife  in  the  old  home ;  its  Lares 
and  Penates  had  been  displaced,  and  the  two  sisters,  ever  united 
by  the  tenderest  ties  of  sympathy,  felt  the  bond  tighten  and 
strengthen,  as,  hand  in  hand,  they  determined  to  go  forth  into 
the  world  and  shape  their  own  destinies.  Before  the  close  of 
the  year,  they  were  established  in  Memphis,  Tennessee,  as 
teachers. 

Strangers  in  a  strange  city,  they  put  themselves  bravely  to 
their  self-appointed  work,  and  by  their  energetic  perseverance, 
no  less  than  their  personal  and  intellectual  charms,  soon  won 
the  confidence  of  all. 

Having  achieved  a  social  and  tutorial  position,  the  elder 
sister  began  to  turn  her  attention  to  literary  pursuits,  contri- 
buting occasional  articles  to  the  journals  and  magazines  of  that 
region,  under  the  name  of  "  Z'lnconnue."  This  signature  soon 
attaining  a  good  degree  of  distinction,  her  compositions  were 
solicited  by  northern  as  well  as  southern  periodicals,  and  the 
way  to  literary  advancement  lay  open  before  her. 

In  1S52,  she  became  associated  with  some  gentlemen  of  New 
Orleans  in  the  publication  of  the  "  Southern  Ladies'  Book." 

On  the  12th  of  January,  1853,  she  was  married  to  Mr.  John 
II.  French,  of  McMinnville,  Tennessee,  a  gentleman  of  fortune 
and  irreproachable  life,  whose  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  are 
in  fine  sympathy  with  her  own.  The  train  of  incidents  which 
led  to  their  accpiaintance,  reads  very  much  like  a  romance. 

A  poem  by  "  VInconnue  " — called  "  The  Lost  Louisiana  " — 
appeared  one  morning  in  a  New  Orleans  journal,  and  a  news- 
boy, making  his  daily  round  past  the  St.  Charles,  came  upon 
a  stranger,  whose  air  of  "  elegant  leisure "  and  intelligence 
betokened,  to  the  boy's  keen  eye,  a  gentleman  of  taste.  He 
commended  the  poem  at  once  by  name,  caught  the  stranger's 
attention,  and  secured  a  customer. 


L.   VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  441 

There  was  more  potency  in  the  words,  "  The  Lost  Louisiana," 
than  the  hoy  imagined.  Not  long  before  the  catastrophe  which 
the  poem  commemorates,  the  stranger  had  lost  all  his  worldly 
possessions  by  a  collision  between  the  "  Louisiana  "  and  the 
"  Belle  of  Clarksville."  He  was  a  passenger  on  the  latter  boat, 
with  a  valuable  stud  of  horses,  a  large  amount  of  money,  and  a 
number  of  servant  men,  when  the  crash  came,  and  only  escaped 
with  his  life.  With  this  sad  cause  of  interest  in  the  afterward 
ill-fated  "  Louisiana,"  he  clipped  the  poem — after  reading  it 
many  times  over  and  noting,  curiously,  the  signature,  "  Z'In- 
connue  " — and  bestowed  it  carefully  in  his  pocket-book. 

Not  long  after,  he  took  passage  on  a  steamer  bound  up  the 
Mississippi,  and  during  a  short  detention  at  Memphis,  went  into 
a  book-store  in  search  of  something  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  the 
vi  ivage.  While  there,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  familiar 
name  of  "  Elneownue"  and  an  intimation  that  the  fair  incog- 
nita was  just  then  passing.  He  turned — gave  one  look  into  the 
blue  eyes  that  met  his  like  the  eyes  of  a  Fate,  and  the  steamer 
continued  her  course  up  the  Mississippi  without  the  stranger  in 
whose  pocket  was  lurning  "  The  Lost  Louisiana."  An  intro- 
duction was  soon  after  effected  ;  L'lnconnue  was  merged  in  Mrs. 
L.  Virginia  French,  and  removed  with  her  husband  to  McMinn- 
ville,  Tenn.,  where  she  now  resides. 

Her  home  is  described  as  a  most  fitting  haunt  for  the  Muses. 
The  Nashville  "  Home  Circle  "  says  of  it :  "  Situated  on  a  grace- 
ful eminence,  to  the  right  of  the  main  thoroughfare  leading  to 
the  village,  it  is  surrounded  by  a  grove  of  stately  oaks,  through 
which  may  be  had  a  glimpse  of  the  house  and  tastefully  culti- 
vated grounds  environing  it.  On  the  east,  the  waters  of  a 
winding  river  approach  within  a  stone's  throw  ;  while  beyond, 
at  a  distance  of  three  or  four  miles,  runs  the  main  chain  of  the 
Cumberland  mountains.  Taste,  comfort,  and  picturesque 
Bcenery,   conspire  to  make  her   residence  what  she  calls  it — a 


442  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

'  Forest  Home.'  Here  our  author  is  leading  a  retired,  studious, 
and  happy  life." 

In  1856,  Mrs.  French  published  a  collection  of  her  poems 
under  the  title  of  "  "Wind  Whispers."  Her  poetry,  like  that  of 
Mrs.  Vertner  Johnson,  would  seem  to  be  the  natural  outflow  of 
her  exuberant  and  harmonious  being.  "We  sit  down  to  analyze 
it,  and  find  ourself  floating  away  on  a  tide  of  rippling  rhyme — 
forgetful  of  all  but  the  delicious  motion,  and  the  silvery 
"  tintinnabulation."  Yet  many  of  the  poems  of  this  writer 
reveal  under-currents  which  require  only  the  hissing  bolt  of 
circumstance  to  stir  them  into  crested  billows  of  feeling  and 
expression. 

Since  the  publication  of  the  volume  "  "Wind  Whispers,"  Mrs. 
French  has  written  a  series  of  metrical  "  Legends  of  the  South," 
some  of  which  are  finely  imaginative  and  graphic.  She  has  also 
published  a  tragedy  in  five  acts,  under  the  title  of  "  Iztalilxo, 
the  Lady  of  Tala."  Some  touches  in  this  drama  are  slightly 
suggestive  of  "  Ion,"  and  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons,"  but  there  are 
passages  of  great  beauty  and  dramatic  force,  which  are  alive 
with  the  author's  own  spirit,  and  prove  her  sufficient  unto 
herself.  We  clip  a  little  notice  of  this  tragedy  from  a  Southern 
paper : 

The  scene  of  "  Iztalilxo,"  is  laid  in  the  "  Land  of  the  Sun,"  the  country  of 
Mexico,  when  the  strange  people,  the  Tezcucons,  ruled  over  its  wealth-teem- 
ing mountains  and  plains,  and  the  daring  foot  of  Cortez  had  not  yet 
printed  its  strand.  The  little  volume  is  full  of  impassioned  poetry,  and 
some  of  the  scenes  are  highly  dramatic.  The  third  one  in  the  fourth  act 
is  finely  sustained,  hut  the  meeting  in  the  cypress  grove  between  the 
two  lovers,  victims  to  the  "  love  that  fate  forbids,"  is  replete  with  tenderness 
and  beauty.  We  can  hardly  choose  between  so  many  beautiful  passages,  any 
particular  one  to  quote ;  but  there  is  one  that  only  a  woman  could  have 
written.  Iztalilxo  has  said,  "  I  wish  "  and  then  hesitated  and  paused,  and  the 
adoring  prince  exclaims  : 


L.VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  443 

"  Thy  '  wish  ?' — oh  tell  me,  love  ! 
Hadst  thou  thy  dearest  wish,  what  would  it  be  ? 
A  throne — an  empire — nations  at  thy  feet — 
Gold  like  the  sands  upon  the  beaten  shore — 
Honors — or  Fame  to  sound  thy  gentle  name 
Down  ages  yet  to  eome — which  should  it  be? 

Izta.  Not  one  of  all  these  !     I  would  be  best  loved 
Of  all  that  have  been,  or  shall  ever  be  ! 

Prince.   Why,  that's  a  woman's  wish,  and  well  fulfilled 
Long  ere  'twas  uttered,  when  I  show  the  world 
Its  ruling  empress — 

Izta.  Stay  !   I  crave  not  that : 

The  empire  I  would  have  is  one  sweet  home 
With  two  hearts  dwelling  in  it :  I'd  not  seek 
To  sway  but  one,  for  that  is  all  the  world  !  " 

And  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  this  "  wish  "  is  the  dearest  one  in  the 
heart  of  her,  who  makes  a  paradise  of  "Forest  Home." 

Mrs.  French  has  sufficient  material,  prose  and  poetry,  for 
two  other  volumes.  Her  prose  is  instinct  -with  the  poetry  of 
her  nature — spirited,  pointed,  and  rhetorical.  She  has  sent  us 
but  one  specimen,  and  that  a  brief  review  of  Le  "Vert's  "  Souve- 
nirs of  Travel,"  which  has  been  copied  and  re-copied,  deservedly, 
into  the  best  papers  of  this  country  and  England. 

Site  is  not  only  a  large  contributor  to  the  current  literature 
both  of  the  North  and  the  South,  but  has  succeeded  Mrs.  Bryan 
in  the  editorial  charge  of  "The  Crusader,"  of  Atlanta,  Ga., 
while  we  hear  her  everywhere  cited  as  one  faithful  to  all  the 
responsibilities  of  the  woman,  the  wife,  and  the  mother. 

Among  the  poems  which  afford  fine  glimpses  of  our  author's 
imaginative  power  and  range,  we  subjoin  "The  Legend  of 
the  Infernal  Pass,"  "  The  Lost  Soul,"  "  Alone,"  "  The 
Ghouls." 

"  The  Miserere  of  the  Pines,"  and  "  Unwritten  Music,"  are 
full  of  soft,  soughing  melodies  and  meanings.     "  One  or  Two," 


444  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH 

"  The  Long  Ago,"  and  "  The  Little  Brothers,"  reveal  the  true 
woman. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  INFERNAL  PASS. 

"  About  sixty  miles  south  of  Santa  Fe,  in  the  mighty  range  of  the  Sierra  Blanca,  there  is  a  famous 
gorge,  some  fifteen  miles  through,  called  '  El  Canon  Inferno,1  or  the  Infernal  Pass,  where  rise  stupen- 
dous masses  of  rock  piled  upon  rock,  until  the  traveller  sees  at  the  top  but  a  narrow  strip  of  sky, 
wnile  around  him  all  is  involved  in  chaotic  gloom."  The  white  steed  alluded  to  in  the  tradition,  is 
still  said  to  be  seen  at  intervals  by  the  warriors  of  the  Camanches.  He  is  represented  as  of  exceeding 
beauty  and  vigor,  but  of  such  swiftness  that,  notwithstanding  the  daring  efforts  of  those  most 
renowned  in  the  capture  of  the  wild  horse,  he  has  never  yet  been  brought  within  raDge  of  the  lariat. 

In  the  white  man's  tent,  on  the  far  frontier, 

At  the  fall  of  the  faded  leaf, 

'Mid  the  pale-faced  followers  of  the  deer, 

Sat  an  old  Camanche  chief; 

And  the  sigh  of  the  wailing  wind  swept  by, 

Through  the  troubled  autumn  sky. 

They  had  passed  thro'  the  "  Canon  "  wild  that  day, 

And  they  noted  a  solemn  spell, 

As  they  entered  the  toilsome,  darkling  way, 

O'er  the  red  man's  features  fell, 

For  a  sound  came  up  through  the  ravines  grey, 

Like  a  wild  steed's  shrilly  neigh. 

The  men  leaped  up  at  the  thrilling  sound, 

For  their  toiling  mules  moved  slow  ; 

But  the  chief  cast  a  wary  glanee  around, 

And  his  guarded  tone  was  low, 

As  he  bade  them  haste,  while  the  kindly  sun, 

Looked  down  in  the  gorges  dun. 

And  then,  when  the  evening  camp  was  set, 

And  the  hunters  rest  had  found — 

When  all  in  the  deer-skin  lodge  had  met. 

They  asked  of  this  mystic  sound ; 

And  the  chief,  while  his  bronzed  cheek  grew  pale, 

Thus  told  them  the  fearful  tale  : 


L.   VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  445 

"  Pale  sons  of  the  eastern  ocean's  foam, 
'Twas  before  your  fathers  came, 
To  take  for  their  own  the  red  man's  home, 
And  to  give  his  hills  their  name, 
That  the  bold  Camanche  held  this  land 
With  a  high  and  mighty  hand. 

"  My  nation  dwelt  on  the  prairie-plain — 
Their  wigwam  fires  shone  bright ; 
Their  children  played  in  the  waving  cane, 
And  the  mother's  heart  was  light, 
And  the  father's  soul  like  the  bended  bow 
On  the  hills  of  long  ago. 

"  In  those  old  days,  by  the  snake-like  pass 
That  down  through  the  mountain  creeps, 
Where  grows  the  spotted  and  sunless  grass, 
That  a  dew  of  poison  weeps — 
In  a  huge  cave-cleft  of  the  rifted  stone, 
A  stranger  dwelt  alone. 

"  None  knew  the  name  of  his  father's  race, 
Or  from  what  far  land  he  came ; 
He  went  not  forth  on  the  hunter's  chase, 
Or  the  warrior's  path  of  fame. 
But  often  the  cavern  rocked  and  rang 
To  a  hammer's  sounding  clang. 

"  lie  roamed  through  the  savage  glens  that  lie, 
'Mid  the  giant  rocks  up-piled, 
Where  a  shining  ore  from  the  sun-god's  eye, 
Lies  hid  in  the  ravines  wild ; 
And  the  towering,  misty  shadows  form 
The  midnight's  bellowing  storm. 

'•  Like  some  tall  tree  on  the  waste  alone, 
Was  his  stern  and  lofty  mien  ; 
It  told  of  a  power  not  yet  o'erthrown, 
And  it  suited  that  desert  scene. 


446  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  his  voice,  like  a  trumpet,  seemed  to  roll, 
From  fathomless  gulfs  of  soul. 

"  He  loved  a  maid  of  my  kingly  race, 
And  he  sought  her  for  his  bride, 
But  the  Red-bird  shrank  from  his  dark  embrace, 
And  his  den  on  the  mountain  side. 
From  his  offered  love  she  turned  and  fled, 
For  her  heart  grew  sick  with  dread. 

"  Her  sire  looked  on  with  knitted  brow, 
Full  scornfully  he  smiled, 
And  said,  '  Shall  the  cawing,  carrion  crow, 
Be  mate  for  the  eagle's  child  ? 
In  our  eyrie  fallen,  we  know  not  whence — 
Let  the  children  drive  him  hence !' 

"  But  a  vengeance-vow  on  the  wind  had  passed — 
A  flame  on  the  night  had  shone, 
And  the  hoofs  of  a  snow-white  steed  struck  fast 
On  the  mountain  pathway  lone, 
And  they  say  that  steed  from  the  cavern  won 
Was  the  Machinito's  son ! 

"  nis  neigh  to  the  wind  rose  wild  and  high 
(Thou  rider  bold,  take  heed), 
With  the  stag's  fleet  foot  he  bounded  by, 
That  beautiful  demon-steed ! 
But  the  glare  of  his  eye  the  soul  had  shook, 
With  its  terrible  human  look ! 

"  The  camp  was  roused  at  the  break  of  day, 
By  a  frantic  shriek  upborne 
On  the  passing  wings  of  the  dawning  grey, 
Through  the  silent  hush  of  morn, 
And  the  warriors  armed  them  for  the  fight 
By  the  morning-star's  pale  light. 

"  Away !  away  !  'tis  the  demon  steed, 
And  his  trampling  shakes  the  grove — 


L.   VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  447 

Afar !  afar  I  at  a  fearful  speed 
The  night-hawk  hears  the  dove ! 
But  the  eagle  brood  are  on  his  route, 
With  a  fierce,  triumphant  shout. 

"  O'er  hill,  o'er  vale,  for  many  a  mile, 
By  a  hundred  braves  pursued, 
The  steed  and  rider  fled  the  while, 
With  a  courage  unsubdued  ; 
The  maiden's  friends  may  toil  and  strain, 
But  the  dark-mouthed  pass  they  gain. 

"  The  rider  here  at  his  utmost  need, 
When  the  goal  was  almost  won, 
Half-checked,  in  mid  career,  his  steed, 
Still  steadily  bounding  on, 
And  shook  his  spear  at  his  gathering  foes, 
That  over  the  summit  rose. 

"  An  arrowy  flight  on  the  darkened  air ! 
A  shriek,  and  a  fearful  bound, 
The  dart  thrilled  deep  in  her  bosom  fair, 
And  the  Red-bird  fell !     Around 
Her  lover  the  fire-darts  fall  like  rain, 
The  prize  he  may  not  regain. 

"  For  the  steed  dashed  on  as  that  flinty  floor 
Had  been  soft  strewn  with  flowers, 
His  nostrils  smoke,  and  the  red  flames  pour 
Around  in  burning  showers  ; 
Away  !  away  !  from  his  stifling  breath, 
Away  !  for  he  speeds  to  Death ! 

"  'Tis  o'er,  bold  rider !  and  didst  thou  shrink 
From  his  neighing  wild  and  loud, 
When  thy  snow-white  steed  on  the  horrid  brink. 
Dissolved  in  a  snow-white  cloud  ? 
From  the  black  corse  rose  a  mad'ning  yell 
As  down  through  the  gulf  it  fell ! 


448  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  They  found  the  sweet  Red-hird  pale  and  cold, 
And  softly  her  maiden  grace 
They  laid  to  rest  in  the  flower-crowned  mold. 
By  the  graves  of  her  ancient  race. 
Where  bright  o'er  her  bosom  the  wild  rose  springs, 
And  the  wood-dove  sits  and  sings. 

"  Yet  often  I,  in  that  dreary  glen. 
Where  the  sunbeams  dare  not  play, 
Have  heard  the  shouts  of  pursuing  men, 
And  a  wild  steed's  startling  neigh  ; 
And  hasted  on  with  a  nameless  fear, 
From  the  danger  prowling  near. 

"  Some  bold  Camanche  who  skims  the  plain 
On  the  prairie-courser's  track, 
In  his  camp  may  ne'er  be  seen  again— 
From  the  chase  he  comes  not  back. 
Woe  !  woe !  to  him  whom  the  spirits  lead 
To  follow  the  path  of  the  phantom-steed  !" 


LEGEND  OF  "THE  LOST  SOUL." 

After  midnight  I  was  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  melancholy  notes  of  a  bird,  called  "  El  AlmaPerdida," 
or  the  Lost  Soul.  Its  wild  and  wailing  cry  from  the  depths  of  the  forest  seemed,  indeed,  as  sad  and 
despairing  as  that  of  one  without  hope.  The  story  in  the  Inca  language  runs  somewhat  thus :  An 
Indian  and  his  wife  went  out  from  the  village  to  work  their  chacra,  taking  their  infant  with  them. 
The  woman  went  to  the  spring  to  get  water,  leaving  the  man  in  charge  of  the  child,  with  many  cau- 
tions to  take  good  care  of  it.  When  she  arrived  at.  the  spring  she  found  it  dried  up,  and  went  further 
to  look  for  another.  The  husband,  alarmed  at  her  long  absence,  left  the  child  and  went  in  search. 
When  they  returned  the  child  was  gone  ;  and  to  their  repeated  cries,  as  they  wandered  through  the 
woods  in  search,  they  could  get  no  response  save  the  wailing  cry  of  the  little  bird,  heard  for  the  first 
time,  whose  notes  their  anxious  and  excited  imagination  "  syllabled"  into  pa-pa,  ma-ma  (the  pre- 
sent Quichua  name  of  the  bird).  I  suppose  the  Spanish  heard  this  story,  and  with  that  religious 
poetic  turn  of  thought,  which  seems  peculiar  to  this  people,  called  the  bird  "  The  Lost  Soul." 

Herndon. 

Ha  !  what  a  frenzied  cry 
Up  the  lone  forest  isles  comes  sadly  wailing, 
Now  quick  and  sharp — now  choked  with  agony, 

As  sight  and  sense  were  failing. 


L.   VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  449 

The  far  stars  coldly  smiled, 
Down  through  the  arches  of  the  twilight  wood, 
Where  sire  and  mother  sought  their  child, 

In  the  dark  solitude. 

And  low  the  phantom  wind 
Came  stealing  o'er  the  hills  with  ghostly  feet 
But  paused  not  in  its  flight  to  hear  one  kind, 

Soft  echo — shrill  and  sweet. 

O'er  them  the  giant  trees 
All  proudly  waving  tossed  their  arms  on  high, 
Yet  no  loved  haby-voice  from  'midst  of  these, 

Answered  their  broken  cry. 

But  one  sad  piping  note, 
That  strangely  syllabled  a  blended  name, 
As  seemed  its  cadences  to  fall  or  float, 

From  boughs  above  them  came. 

The  mother  started  wild, 
As  that  strange  sound  the  forest  foliage  stirred. 
Then  hastened  to  the  sire — she  knew  her  child, 

In  that  lone  spirit-bird. 

No  word  the  father  spake : 
His  face  was  ghastly,  and  its  haggard  lines 
Lay  stern  and  rigid  like  some  frozen  lake 

O'ershadowed  by  its  pines. 

Shuddering,  she  strove  to  speak, 
Once  more  in  nature's  strong  appealing  tones 
To  supplicate  her  child — there  came  a  shriek 

That  died  in  heavy  moans. 

The  night  came  down,  afar 
Was  heard  the  hoarse,  deep  baying  of  the  storm, 
And  thunder  clouds  around  each  captive  star 

In  black  battalions  form. 
29 


450  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Now,  all  the  mighty  wood 
Has  voices  like  the  sullen  sounding  sea, 
While  onward  rolls  the  deep,  majestic  flood 

His  surges  solemnly. 

The  massy  foliage  rocks 
Slow  swaying  to  the  wind;  and,  failing  fast, 
Embattled  oaks  that  braved  a  thousand  shocks 

Are  bending  to  the  blast. 

And  crimson  tropic  bloom 
Lies  heaped  upon  the  sward,  as  though  a  wave 
Of  Summer  sunset  streams  within  the  gloom 

Had  found  a  verdant  grave. 

Down  came  the  rushing  rain, 
But  far,  perchance,  where  thunders  never  roll. 
The  bird  hath  flown,  the  parents  called  in  vain, 

Upon  the  wandering  soul. 

Then  feebly  'mid  the  maze, 
Of  'wildering  storm,  their  feet  the  cabin  sought, 
Oft  turning  back  to  search  with  blinded  gaze, 

For  that  which  now  was  not. 

True,  true — the  tale  is  old, 
And  full  of  sorrow  the  tradition  hoary, 
Yet  daily  life's  unwritten  annals  hold 

A  sterner,  sadder  story. 

Oh !  hear  ye  not  the  cry, 
That  every  hour  sends  up  where  thick  life  presses, 
That  shrieks  from  lowest  depths  to  God  on  high 

From  life's  great  wildernesses  ? 

It  is  the  cry  of  Woman, 
And  hers  the  really  lost  and  wandering  soul, 
Seeking  amid  the  god-like,  yet  the  human, 

To  find  her  destined  goal. 


L.    VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  451 

Like  glacier  of  the  North, 
Her  pure  and  shining  spirit  hraves  the  sea 
Of  Life  and  Action — drifting,  drifting  forth, 

On  waves  of  Destiny. 

"  Deep  calling  unto  deep," 
How  raves  the  ocean  by  the  tempest  tossed ! 
Perchance  her  onward  course  the  soul  may  keep, 

Perchance  'tis  wrecked,  or  lost. 

Perchance  some  other  heart 
Iu  pride  of  Being  standing  firm  and  free, 
May  call,  "Oh!  seeker  of  the  'better  part,' 

Come,  wanderer,  to  me!" 

Alas !  that  dulcet  tone 
Is  but  the  hollow  music  of  a  shell 
That  mocks  the  Ocean  ;  yet,  the  pilgrim  lone 

It  wins  as  by  a  spell. 

The  dream,  the  dream  is  past — 
Perchance  some  careless  word,  some  fancied  wrong, 
The  soul  is  driven  forth — oh !  woe  the  last, 

The  weaker  by  the  strong. 

From  her  closed  lips  a  moan 
Goes  up — yet  seems  it  her  imspoken  prayer 
Falls  back  again  upon  her  heart — alone 

To  sink  and  perish  there. 

And  then  her  spirit  pants 
Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Still  struggling  on  amid  the  vulture  wants 

That  make  her  heart  their  prey. 

Still,  in  its  source  of  pain 
Clinging  most  fondly ;  and  in  her  holy  trust 
Pouring  its  worship  in  a  worse  than  vain 

Idolatry  on  dust : 


452  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

Like  the  great  organ  rocks 
That  rise  on  Orinoco's  distant  shore, 
She  sends  rich  music  o'er  the  wave  that  mocks, 

Yet  answers  her  no  more ! 

From  the  still  firmament 
A  star  drops — sparkles — and  almost  before 
The  eye  can  note,  is  gone — with  Chaos  blent 

Its  brilliancy  is  o'er. 

And  thus  with  thee — unknown, 
Unrecognized,  and  lost  in  earthly  clime, 
Thy  'wildered  soul  may  wander,  and  alone 
from  the  shores  of  Time. 

Yet  far  in  yon  blue  dome, 
Where  dwell  the  spirits  of  the  dear  departed, 
There  thou  art  known ;  and  they  will  welcome  home 

An  angel — broken  hearted. 

Then  courage,  weary  one ! 
Work  while  thou  may'st — for  though  thy  spirit,  riven, 
Is  fading  like  a  fountain  in  the  sun, 

Exhaled,  it  reaches  Heaven ! 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  it?     'Tis  upon  the  breeze, 

And  by  the  brookside,  in  the  forest  aisles, 

And  far  away  where  cloud  and  sunshine  meet 

In  the  deep  azure  sky.     The  symphonies 

Of  Spring  are  gushing  fervently  and  free, 

As  early  orisons  from  the  pure  hearts 

And  lips  of  childhood.     From  the  valley  green, 

Where  wave  the  slender  willows,  upward  steals 

The  low,  clear  tinkling  of  the  rivulet. 

As  though  it  mocked  the  roving  zephyr's  search 


L.   VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  453 

For  its  sweet  hiding-place.     The  bird  and  bee 
Sing  to  the  blossoms,  and  their  minstrelsy 
Calls  forth  the  queenly  rose,  as  erst  the  lay 
Of  bard  was  wont  to  herald  the  approach 
Of  beauty  to  the  tournament.     On  high 
The  sky -lark  bathes  his  bosom  in  the  cloud, 
And  every  tiny  drop  within  it  thrills 
To  his  glad  melody,  as  thrills  the  hearts 
Of  some  vast  multitude  of  listeners 
When  Sweden's  song-bird  sings. 

Around  the  eaves 
Flits  the  young  blue-bird,  and  the  little  wren, 
With  its  low,  piping  note ;  the  humming-bird, 
Bright  as  a  flying  rainbow  ;  while  afar, 
From  the  deep  everglade,  comes  up  the  call 
Of  sweet-voiced  dwellers  in  the  solitude. 
Where  the  dark  cedar  flings  its  mossy  boughs 
O'er  the  white-crested  dogwood  trees,  is  heard 
The  winding  of  the  locust's  tiny  horn ; 
While  from  the  beechen  grove  the  katydid 
Sends  forth  her  merry  challenge.     At  the  morn 
The  gay  grasshopper,  with  his  fairy  fife, 
Sounds  a  shrill  reveille  ;  and  swift  at  eve 
The  elves  come  trooping  to  the  beetle's  drum  : 
Then,  when  the  thunder,  with  its  organ-swell, 
Peals  through  the  dome  of  heaven,  how  softly  fall 
The  footsteps  of  the  rain,  like  to  a  band 
Of  gentle  worshippers,  slow  entering 
The  temple  of  the  Lord. 

Oh  !  what  a  world 
Of  heaven-descended  music  lies  around 
Our  daily  pathway!  in  the  morning  air, 
The  noontide  glory,  and  the  dewy  fall 
Of  dusky  twilight — in  the  carollings 
Of  bird  and  breeze,  the  murmur  of  the  leaves, 
And  the  low-gliding  streamlet !     Can  we  note 


451  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Their  many-braided  melodies?  or  give  again 
Their  spells  of  song  to  thousands  ?     None,  not  one  ; 
And  yet  the  poorest  slave  may  revel  in 
This  music,  written  by  the  hand  of  God. 


ALONE! 

List !  my  soul,  as  the  night-wind  drear 
Wails  for  the  dead  leaves,  pale  and  sere, 

On  the  bleak  earth  strown  ; 
Sighing  and  shuddering,  faint  and  cold, 
As  the  maniac-miser's  cry  for  gold, 
It  shrieks  and  sobs  o'er  the  midnight  wold — 

Alone !  alone ! 

Look  !  where  the  vagrant  wild-fire's  light, 
Flitting  away  through  the  shadowy  night, 

O'er  the  grave  is  thrown  ; 
A  lurid  gloom  in  the  dismal  haze, 
Now  light,  now  lost  to  the  dreamer's  gaze, 
It  fades — it  dies  in  the  'wildered  maze — 

Alone !  alone  ! 

Hist !  from  the  depths  of  the  haunted  well 
Rises  a  signal  dread  and  fell : 

At  the  sullen  moan, 
The  crumbling  walls  o'er  the  waters  shake; 
And  the  spotted  toad,  and  the  slimy  snake, 
In  their  beds  of  lichen  quail  and  quake — 

Alone !  alone ! 

Far  to  the  verge  of  a  lonely  glen. 

By  the  fox's  lair,  and  the  ban-wolf's  den, 

Sweeps  the  wizard  tone  : 
It  summons  the  ghoul  from  his  charnel-bed, 
Withered,  and  gibbering,  and  demon-fed, 
To  the  path  of  doom — (and  away  he's  sped,) 

Alone !  alone ! 


L.   VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  455 

Tu-whit !  tu-whoo  !     'Twas  the  mousing  owl, 
Keeping  his  watch  by  an  altar  foul, 

On  the  Druid-stone : 
He  hides  from  the  prowling  vampire-brood, 
Deep  in  the  gloom  of  the  mystic  wood, 
And  cowers  down  in  the  solitude — 

Alone !  alone ! 

Croak  !  croak  !     'Twas  the  raven's  cry  : 
'Mid  the  bough  of  hemlock  dank  and  high, 

His  fiend-eye  shone. 
To  the  night-hag  hid  in  the  blasted  tree, 
As  lone,  as  weird,  and  as  fierce  as  he, 
Came  the  chant  of  his  mocking  prophecy — 

Alone  !  alone  ! 

Hark  !  what  a  writhing,  stifling  sound 
Slowly  creeps  from  the  murderers'  mound, 

Like  a  victim's  groan  : 
Too  dread  to  rise  on  the  wind's  wild  swell, 
Deep  through  the  cypress-shadowed  dell 
Echoes  the  murmur  hoarse  and  fell — 

Alone !  alone ! 

Up !  my  soul,  from  this  charnel  gloom, 
Which  binds  thee  down  to  a  living  tomb 

With  an  iron  zone : 
Up !  my  soul,  on  the  homeless  tide 
Of  a  dark  existence,  wild  and  wide, 
To  doom  and  destiny  proudly  ride 

Alone !  alone ! 


MISERERE  OF  THE  PINES. 

There's  a  voice  upon  the  hill-top,  and  a  song  within  the  vale ; 
Fairy  carols  in  the  woodland,  spirit-whispers  on  the  gale  ; 
A  merry  mermaid  chorus  in  the  ocean's  sparry  caves, 
And  a  bold,  triumphant  pcean  from  the  ever-tossing  waves; 


456  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

But  sweeter  to  my  spirit,  when  the  autumn  day  declines, 
Comes  the  stately,  solemn,  swelling  miserere  of  the  Pines. 

There  is  music  in  the  morning,  there  is  harmony  at  eve, 

In  the  rich,  fantastic  overtures  the  boughs  and  breezes  weave ; 

Dreamy  melody  at  noontide  from  the  willow-hidden  rills, 

Or  the  hunter's  bugle  sounding  on  the  far-off,  breezy  hills ; 

But  when  round  the  brow  of  midnight  red  the  starry  Serpent  shines, 

I  love  the  stately,  solemn  miserere  of  the  Pines. 

When  the  firefly  beacon  glitters  thro'  the  twilight  everglades, 
And  the  birds  have  sunk  to  slumber  in  the  woodland  colonnades, 
Comes  a  murmur  like  the  wild-bee,  in  the  meadow-lily's  bell, 
That  deepens  to  the  thunders  of  an  organ's  rolling  swell, 
As  the  night-wind,  creeping  slowly  thro'  ten  thousand  leafy  tines, 
Wakes  the  stately,  solemn,  swelling  miserere  of  the  Pines. 

The  Palm,  in  sensuous  beauty,  and  the  Oak's  defiant  pride, 
Bow,  as  the  banded  tempest  sweeps  the  forest-phalanx  wide ; 
But  the  keen  mid-winter  wind,  upon  the  ocean's  rocky  shore, 
Calls  forth  from  out  the  dark  pine-grove  a  mimic  surge's  roar  ; 
And,  as  the  serried  waters  pass  their  storm-embattled  lines, 
Seem  marching  to  the  stately  miserere  of  the  Pines. 

Funeral  anthems  float  far  down  the  dim  cathedral  nave, 
Where  crested  Valor's  marble  form  lies  shrouded  for  the  grave  ; 
But  not  so  proud  a  dirge  is  his,  as  that  which  echoes  wide 
Above  the  pilgrim  lone  who  perished  on  the  mountain-side, 
As  thro'  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree  that  o'er  his  rest  reclines, 
Steals  on  the  solemn,  swelling  miserere  of  the  Pines. 

Oh !  many  a  thrilling  melody  at  midnight  revels  free, 
And  music  at  the  day-spring  sounds  her  hymn  of  jubilee  ; 
But  like  the  thousand  echoes  that  awake  within  the  heart — 
Strong  in  their  very  gentleness,  a  blessing  to  impart 
By  bringing  buried  jewels  from  the  spirit's  secret  mines — 
Is  the  stately,  solemn,  swelling  miserere  of  the  Pines. 


I,.  VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  451 


THE  GHOULS. 

"  Two  terrible  spectres  called  the  '  Searchers  of  the  Grave,'  in  the  creed  of  the  orthodox  Moham- 
medans." , 

Tramp !  tramp !  to  a  ghostly  tramp 
Echoed  the  churchyard  dark  and  damp : 
Slowly  swung  as  the  hinges  grate, 
Shrieking  folded  the  iron  gate  : 
Sullen  sounds  from  the  belfry  fell, 
Muffled  moans  from  its  brazen  bell ; 
And  spectres  twain  have  crouched  beside 
The  new-made  grave  of  a  murdered  bride. 

Tramp !  tramp !  on  the  marble  meet 
The  hollow  clank  of  their  skeleton  feet : 
A  rattling  clasp  of  their  bony  hands, 
And  each  of  the  other  his  health  demands. 
"  Whence  and  whither?"     'Twas  Moukir  spoke, 
His  voice  of  fear  on  the  midnight  broke ; 
But  no  reply,  save  a  sidelong  sneer, 
Cast  askance  with  a  hideous  leer, 
The  other  deigned  him.     Then  suddenly, 
In  a  gibbering  spasm  of  fiendish  glee, 
He  sang : — his  feet  on  the  turf  kept  time, 
To  the  hollow  chant  of  a  weird  old  rhyme : 

'•  Whence  cometh  Nakir  ? — where  slaves  in  their  glee 
With  shouts  rend  the  air  round  a  tall  gallows-tree, 
Where  the  corpse  of  a  murderer  swings  to  the  night ! 
And  whither  goes  Nakir? — his  hurrying  flight 
Seeks  out  the  fair  victim  who  perished  in  woe 
At  her  blood-ended  bridal !     She  slumbers  below. 

"  They  have  given  us  two :  the  dark  minion  of  pride 
And  the  blossom  he  trampled — the  beautiful  bride. 
That  night  to  his  chamber,  all  senseless  and  wan, 
They  bore  her  young  lover,  a  palsied  old  man 


458  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

He  woke  in  the  morning:  the  days  will  be  few 
Ere  the  arrow  has  sped,  and  he  slumbers  here  too. 

"  From  a  region  of  dread,  from  a  realm  of  despair, 
We  journey  afar  on  the  highways  of  air ; 
And  we  come  with  a  sullen,  dull-echoing  tread, 
To  lead  a  wild  measure — the  dance  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  prince  and  the  peasant,  the  guilty  and  gay, 
Are  gathered  at  last  to  their  dwellings  of  clay. 

"  They  brought  from  the  palace  with  anthem  and  prayer, 
The  icy  remains  of  the  new-christened  heir : 
The  sire  was  dejected,  the  mother  grew  wild, 
As  the  clods  clattered  over  her  beautiful  child : 
The  grass  scarcely  over  the  low  grave  had  crept 
When  again  it  was  opened — the  pale  mother  slept. 

"  They  brought  the  proud  maiden,  despoiled  of  her  bloom, 
They  laid  her  to  slumber  in  silence  and  gloom ; 
Her  snow-sculptured  bosom,  so  pulseless  and  cold, 
All  quietly  pillows  the  gathering  mold: 
No  gesture  of  loathing,  nor  shudder,  nor  start, 
As  the  worm  nestles  down  in  her  passionless  heart. 

"  They  brought  the  grim  despot,  bereft  of  his  throne; 
In  tyranny,  terror,  and  triumph  he  shone : 
Alas!  for  the  reptile  assuming  to  sway 
A  sceptre  of  dust  over  creatures  of  clay ! 
They  bore  ont  his  ashes  with  riotous  glee, 
And  his  knell  was  their  psean  of  wild  jubilee. 

"  They  brought  the  dead  miser,  so  haggard  and  cold, 
Whose  life  was  a  libel,  whose  god  was  his  gold : 
All  careless  they  gossiped,  as  over  the  stones 
In  the  rumbling  old  death-cart  they  jostled  his  bones; 
And  e'en  the  dull  blind- worm,  it  loathed  him  when  dead, 
And  turned  from  a  banquet  so  meagrely  spread ! 


L.   VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  459 

"  They  brought  the  pale  scholar:  for  glory  in  vain 
His  wrung  spirit  tortured  a  feverish  brain  : 
He  shrank  from  the  rich,  he  avoided  the  proud, 
He  stood  all  alone  in  the  revelling  crowd : 
He  struggled  for  honors — no  honors  for  him ; 
And  the  gaunt  eye  grew  glassy,  the  life-star  grew  dim. 

"  The  warrior-chieftain  went  forth  in  his  pride  : 
His  love  was  dominion,  his  sword  was  his  bride: 
'Twas  a  wild  battle  midnight — the  foray  was  vain — 
A  festering  corse  he  was  left  on  the  plain, 
And  famishing  vultures,  they  ate  out  the  eye 
That  flashed  with  defiance  when  summoned  to  die. 

"  The  brow  where  ambition  has  planted  a  crown, 
Pale  Luxury  pressing  his  pillow  of  down, 
The  image  of  Beauty,  the  idol  of  Fame, 
Will  shudder  and  shriek  at  our  terrible  name ; 
Yet  ho!  for  the  banquet !  the  king  and  the  slave 
Alike  are  the  prey  of  the  'Lords  of  the  Grave!"' 


MADAME  LE  VERT'S  "SOUVENIRS  OF  TRAVEL." 

It  has  been  said  that  the  "  very  word  genius  comprehends  all  the  loveli- 
ness of  woman.  It  signifies  but  the  power  to  feel  deeply,  combined  with  an 
intellect  capable  of  embodying  those  feelings  into  language,  and  of  conveying 
its  images  of  truth  and  beauty,  from  the  heart  of  the  writer  to  the  heart  of 
the  reader."  If  this  be  so,  then  is  Madame  Le  Vert  eminently  a  woman  of 
genius;  and  to  be  convinced  of  this  fact,  one  has  only  to  read  her  delightful 
"Souvenirs."  Her  book  is  like  herself,  and  she  is  a  "  veni,  vidi,  w«,'' 
woman.  She  disarms  all  criticism,  and  to  know  her  is  to  love  her.  Her 
fair  open  brow,  like  her  warm  heart,  is  the  abode  of  sunshine,  and  the  glance 
of  her  eye  is  calm,  and  kindly,  and  pure  as  that  of  the  freshly  gathered  vio- 
lets that  oft-times  sleep  upon  her  bosom.  Her  voice  comes  welling  up  in  a 
rich  "  clouded  contralto  " — tones  that  are  the  very  music  of  the  heart.  Soft 
as  the  dreamy  lull  of  chiming  waters — low,  like  the  singing  of  the  summer 
winds,  steals  npon  our  spirits  the  sweet  music  of  her  words.     In  her  manner, 


460  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

cordial,  simple,  natural,  and  self-possessed,  she  is  equally  above  the  parvenu's 
pretensions,  and  beyond  the  necessity  of  art.  She  possesses,  too,  in  an  emi- 
nent degree,  that  "  philosopher's  stone  "  of  pleasing — variety.  And,  indeed, 
so  fresh,  so  deep,  so  full  of  mystical  witchery  is  that  "  infinite  variety," 
that  in  any  degree  to  illustrate  it,  we  must  borrow  the  language  of  a 
modern  writer,  who,  when  he  would  describe  a  sentiment,  which  he  felt 
to  be  indescribable,  said,  "It  is  like  the  eye  of  the  woman  first  loved  to 
the  soul  of  the  poet!"  The  world  has,  for  the  most  part,  been  bright  to 
her,  and  for  this  her  soul  bows  in  child-like  reverence,  and  pours  forth 
its  rapturous  gratitude  to  Him  who  has  east  her  "lines  in  pleasant  places," 
and  given  to  her  the  "  goodly  heritage  "  of  happiness.  Beauty  always 
wins  its  way ;  it  needs  neither  introduction  nor  apology,  and  so  every- 
where admirers  have  gathered  around  her  "thick  as  leaves  in  Vallam- 
brosa,"  till  her  warm,  impulsive  spirit,  feeling  the  blessedness  of  being 
loved,  carols  forth  like  a  bird  amid  the  dawning,  its  love,  its  ecstasy,  and 
its  gratitude. 

As  is  the  woman,  so  is  the  volume  before  us.  It  is  a  work  that  proves 
how  the  highest  cultivation  of  the  intellect  may  be  ennobled  by  the  warm 
sympathies  and  tender  affections  of  our  nature.  She  writes  as  the  bird 
sings,  because  its  heart  is  gushing  over  with  melody  ;  she  writes  as  the 
flower  blooms,  because  it  is  bathed  in  dew,  fanned  by  the  breeze,  and 
kindled  up  by  the  sunshine,  till  it  bursts  its  inclosing  petals,  and  lavishes 
its  fragrance  and  sweet  life  upon  the  air.  She  receives,  as  it  were  by 
intuition,  the  idea  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  that  the  whole  universe  is  a 
"  Cosmos  "  of  beauty  and  order,  and  this  she  presents  to  the  reader  not 
as  a  pleasant  theory,  but  a  sublime  truth.  And  yet,  at  times,  as  if  to 
prove  how  truly  she  is  woman,  a  faint  shadow  lies  upon  her  heart,  and 
is  reflected  upon  the  page — telling  that  she  has  entered  the  temple  of 
memory,  and  passing  by  little  graves  at  the  threshold,  still  guarded  by 
love  and  sorrow,  her  spirit  treads  silently  the  hallowed  chamber  of  tears. 

Prejudiced  by  no  sectarian  dogmas,  influenced  by  no  sectional  jealousy, 
she  opens  wide  the  portals  of  her  heart,  and  folds  the  whole  world  of 
humanity  in  her  loving  and  kindly  embrace.  With  her  a  humane  electi- 
cism  has  taken  the  place  of  a  partial  creed — she  looks  upon  all  her  race 
with  an  "  infinite  pity  and  infinite  love,"  and,  therefore,  the  arts,  litera- 
ture, society  and  systems  of  all  countries,  through  which  she  has  jour- 
neyed, are  kindly  viewed  and  liberally  interpreted.  Beneath  her  mental 
wealth  the  affections  exist  in  proportionate  strength,  and  they  come  gush- 


L.   VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  461 

ing  up  at  every  call  of  sympathy,  and  tinge  all  her  creations  with  hues 
of  beauty,  as  the  sun  flushes  the  rainbow  into  life,  by  waving  his  light 
through  the  soft-dropping  shower.  That  reverence  and  devotion  to  her 
mother,  which  shines  so  beautifully  through  her  daily  life,  is  here  as 
tenderly  portrayed,  and  forms  an  illustrious  example  to  the  young  of  our 
land,  for  in  general  they  are  but  too  prone  to  neglect  to  pay  that  homage 
and  duty  to  the  aged  which  is  only  their  just  and  rightful  due.  The 
woman  who  has  given  to  America  such  a  daughter  as  Madame  Le  Vert, 
should  never  be  forgotten. 

As  to  the  literary  claims  of  the  work  before  us,  it  is  just  what  it 
purports  to  be.  While  it  exhibits  the  strength  of  the  author's  mind,  the 
wonderfully  retentive  power  of  her  memory,  and  the  extent  of  her  acquire- 
ments, it  is  not  overcrowded  with  the  embellishments  of  standard  pens, 
and  has  nothing  of  the  tinsel  of  the  pedant,  or  the  trickery  of  the  rhe- 
torician. The  style  is  easy,  unostentatious,  and  natural.  It  is  rich  in 
incident,  the  descriptions  are  vivid,  and  the  anecdotes  charmingly  told, 
and  yet  there  is  no  laboring  for  effect,  and  a  delightful  air  of  sincerity 
pervades  the  whole,  tinged  with  the  eoulevr  de  rose  of  enthusiasm.  She 
speaks  from  a  full  heart  of  the  beautiful  in  Nature  and  Art,  of  old 
and  stirring  associations,  of  social  traits,  and  of  the  welcome  of  friends ; 
and  in  all  kindness  and  honesty,  endeavors  to  share  with  others  the 
delightful  impressions  which  she  has  enjoyed.  All  that  history  has  chro- 
nicled, and  poetry  consecrated,  come  from  her  pen  flushed  with  the  rose- 
glow  of  her  enthusiastic  nature. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  this  work  with  those  of  other  modern 
voyageurs :  with  Taylor  and  Headley,  for  instance,  or  with  Mrs.  Beecher 
Stowe,  the  piquant  "  Bell  Smith,"  or  rich,  rare,  and  racy  Grace  Greenwood. 
Especially  do  I  love  to  contrast  the  "  Souvenirs"  with  "Haps  and  Mishaps." 
The  one  is  a  saucy,  dashing  brunette,  who  provokes  you  into  admiration ;  the 
other  a  gentle,  graceful  blonde,  who,  ere  you  are  aware,  steals  your  whole 
la-art  away.  There  is  a  wild,  almost  wicked  little  sprite  of  northern  antag- 
onism which  peers  out  upon  you  from  behind  the  "thick-coming"  beauties 
of  Grace  Greenwood's  book,  and  which  reminds  one  forcibly  of  that  elfish 
little  "  Pearl  "  who  comes  peeping  at  you  through  the  tangled  mysteries  of 
the  "Scarlet  Letter."  This  is  a  charm  in  our  gifted  northern  country- 
woman, for  it  is  characteristic — it  would  not  be  natural  to  our  southern 
queen,  and  consequently  you  see  nothing  like  it.  In  no  one  instance  is  this 
contrast  better  illustrated  than  the  manner  in  which  each  speaks  of  "  His 


462  WOMEN    OP    THE    SOUTH. 

Holiness,"  the  Pope.  Grace  has  "  white  spirits  and  grey,"  and  some  of  them 
of  an  elfish  origin,  half  imp,  half  angel.  But  M'rne  Le  Vert's  angels  are  all 
angelic,  her  fairies  are  all  "  good  fairies,"  even  the  humblest  are  merry- 
hearted,  kind  little  "  Brownies,"  who  delight  to  bear  forth  blessings  from  the 
"kind  woman  who  gave  bread  to  the  hungry,"  in  the  streets  of  Igualada. 

Many  extracts  have  been  made  from  the  "  Souvenirs,"  yet  strange  to  me 
it  seems,  that  the  most  glowing  and  eloquent  portions  of  the  work  have  not 
been  quoted.  The  limits  of  this  article  will  not  permit  me  to  make  extended 
extracts,  yet  I  cannot  forbear  mentioning  a  description  of  Vesuvius,  rich  and 
glowing  as  its  own  lava,  and  another  of  the  Coliseum  as  beautifully  sad  as  is 
that  noble  ruin  itself.  Speaking  of  the  latter  she  says,  "The  Coliseum  is 
fast  crumbling  away ;  Rome  has  fallen  from  her  early  grandeur ;  but  the 
world  progresses  more  proudly  than  ever,  for  that  fair  and  glorious  land 
beyond  the  broad  Atlantic  has  been  added  to  the  treasures  of  time — that 
unrivalled  land,  the  birth-place  of  Washington  and  of  freedom,  which  seems, 
'Pallas-like,  to  have  sprung  from  the  head  of  Jove,'  with  all  the  knowledge 
of  departed  centuries,  and  the  experience  of  long  buried  nations."  Then 
there  is  a  morning  on  the  Pincian  Hill,  and  an  evening  with  the  Brownings, 
the  glorious  portraiture  of  Moonlight  in  Venice,  and  the  sweet  and  sad  fare- 
well to  Italy,  while  over  the  pictures  of  little  Raffaello,  the  Lazzaroni  boy, 
and  Matilda,  the  humble  protegee  of  Miss  Bremer,  no  one  can  restrain  their 
tears.  But  the  sweetest  sentence  in  the  entire  work,  because  revealing  so 
fully  the  whole  "  inner  life "  of  the  author,  is  found  among  her  parting 
words,  when  at  Havana  she  bids  adieu  to  her  loved  ones  in  the  new  world. 
"  Should  this,"  she  writes,  "  be  the  last  line  my  hand  ever  traces,  may  the 
memory  of  me  never  awaken  a  pang  in  a  human  heart,  but  linger  around  it 
like  the  aroma  of  precious  flowers."  In  this,  and  the  sentences  following, 
are  embodied  her  whole  creed — lone  to  God,  and  good  will  toward  men. 
Surely  do  I  believe  that  the  "  Golden  Rule "  of  her  life  is  this,  so  to  live 
as  never  to  awaken  a  pang  in  any  human  heart.  Oh,  that  the  whole 
world  would  adopt  her  blessed  creed,  then  would  earth  indeed  become  a 
paradise ! 

Some  one  has  said  that  "  to  be  a  good  traveller,  argues  one  no  ordinary 
philosopher."  Then  is  Madame  Le  Vert  a  philosopher  indeed — the  "  world- 
pencilling  "  Pfeiffer  is  not  a  greater.  A  south  wind  seems  to  be  always  pass- 
ing over  her  spirit.  Her  serenity  seems  proof  against  all  petty  vexations, 
she  smiles  at  occasional  imposition,  and  good-naturedly  abides  by  all  the 
"ills"  that  voyagers  "are  heir  to."     Ever  ready,  in  her  urbanity  of  sold,  to 


L.    VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  463 

recognize  the  "  good  in  everything,"  she  passes  over  the  ill,  dwells  upon  the 
agreeable,  and  unfolds  for  us  the  "  silver  lining  "  of  every  cloud  that  floats 
athwart  her  sky.  She  is  the  true  traveller,  one  who  has  learned  to  reverence 
Nature,  to  appreciate  genius,  and  to  love  humanity.  And  more — she  has 
nothiug  of  the  self-sufficiency  and  prejudice  which  distinguish  too"  many  of 
our  modern  voyageurs  ;  such  as  are  so  finely  satirized  in  "  As  You  Like  It." 
Says  Rosalind,  "  farewell,  monsieur  traveller — look  you  lisp,  and  wear 
strange  suits,  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country ;  be  out  of  love 
with  your  nativity ;  or  I  will  scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a  gondola." 
On  the  contrary,  travel  has  only  made  Madame  Le  Vert  more  in  love  with 
her  "nativity," — it  has  but  deepened  her  sense  and  pride  of  nationality. 
She  has  found  the  name  of  an  American  everywhere  an  honorable  passport. 
It  is  a  fresh  and  hopeful  name — its  associations  are  of  freedom  and  progres- 
sion. And  so,  surrounded  by  the  bold  magnificence  of  Alpine  heights,  amid 
the  solemn  ruins  of  old  Imperial  Rome,  mingling  in  the  royal  pageantries  of 
England,  and  of  France,  she  looks  back  upon  her  native  land,  consecrated  to 
liberty  by  the  genius  of  Washington,  and  exclaims  with  an  exultant  joy,  "I, 
too,  am  an  American  !" 

And  it  was  this  deep  sense  of  nationality,  as  well  as  the  generosity  of  her 
nature,  which  prompted  her  to  bestow  so  liberally  from  the  sales  of  her  work 
to  the  noble  purpose  of  the  Mount  Vernon  Association.  Like  the  tolling 
bell  of  every  vessel  that  passes  by  Mount  Vernon,  her  heart-throbs  give  out 
a  mournful  music  to  the  memory  of  him  who  slumbers  there.  And  thus  it 
will  be  always  with  her.  She  will  ever  be  giving  utterance  by  word  or 
action  to  the  beautiful  and  generous  impulses  of  her  nature.  The  clay  of 
which  we  are  made  will  never  be  able  to  check  the  sweet,  gushing  fountains 
of  her  soul.  She  gathers  around  her  here  all  that  the  world  can  give  of 
purity  and  brightness,  and  we  know  that  when  she  passes  through  the  portals 
of  the  far-away  spirit-land,  she  will  bear  with  her  no  remembrance  of  earth 
save  those  of  its  beauty  and  its  bloom. 


MART  E.  BRYAN. 

It  was  no  part  of  our  plan  to  give  prominence  to  writers  who 
are  not,  in  the  accepted  sense,  authors ;  but  Mrs.  Bryan  has  con- 
tributed so  essentially  to  the  tone  and  stamina  of  southern 
literature,  and  her  productions  are  so  vital  with  the  quality, 
generally  considered  indigenous  to  the  colder  clime  and  rougher 
soil  of  our  "  Northland,"  we  feel  that  it  would  be  defrauding  the 
South  to  withhold  a  full  recognition. 

Mrs.  Bryan,  the  daughter  of  Major  J.  D.  Edwards,  a 
respectable  and  influential  planter,  is  a  native  of  Florida.  Her 
childhood  was  much  given  to  out-door  sports  and  exercise,  to 
horseback  rides  through  the  wild  woods  that  surrounded  her 
home,  and  dreamy  roamings  from  one  favorite  haunt  to  another 
— face  to  face  and  heart  to  heart  always  with  Nature.  To  this 
free  life  and  these  healthful  habits,  she  may  trace,  in  a  great 
measure,  the  sturdy  vitality  which  marks  her  writings. 

Until  the  age  of  twelve,  she  was  educated  entirely  by  her 
mother,  whose  fine  endowments  eminently  fitted  her  for  the 
work.  Hoping,  then,  to  secure  for  her  still  greater  advantages, 
the  family  removed  to  the  place  afterward  so  well  known  as 
"  "Woodland,"  near  Thomasville,  Georgia.  With  the  additional 
facilities  afforded  by  this  change,  our  writer  made  rapid  pro- 
gress in  her  studies,  and,  during  four  years  of  close  application, 
advanced  steadily  in  culture  and  discipline. 

While  yet  a  mere  school-girl,  she  met  her  "  destiny,"  in  the 
son  of  a  wealthy  planter  of  Louisiana,  whom   at  sixteen  she 

4&i 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  465 

married,  and  accompanied  to  his  large   plantation  on  the  Red 
River,  La. 

One  year  after,  under  the  pressure  of  painful  circumstances, 
she  returned  to  her  father's  house,  where,  in  a  long  interval  of 
comparatively  aimless  life,  she  began  to  write  for  the  press. 

Her  vigorous  articles  at  once  challenged  attention,  and  she 
was  soon  secured  as  a  regular  contributor  to  the  "  Literary  and 
Temperance  Crusader,"  a  weekly  journal  then  published  in  Pen- 
field,  Ga.  From  three  to  five  columns  of  this  paper  were  filled 
every  week  with  her  strong  prose  and  richly  imaginative  poetry. 
Curiosity  was  piqued  and  admiration  excited.  Many  were  the 
queries  concerning  the  young  writer  who,  in  her  secluded  home, 
remained  quite  unconscious  of  the  distinction  she  was  winning. 

In  1859,  the  "  Crusader,"  enlarged  and  improved,  was 
removed  to  the  city  of  Atlanta,  6a.,  and  Mrs.  Bryan  accept- 
ing the  charge  of  the  literary  department,  left  her  home,  to  find 
in  the  arduous  duties  of  editorial  life  full  outlet  for  her  energies. 
The  vigor  and  originality  which  she  brought  to  the  work  at 
once  gave  a  distinctive  character  to  the  "  Crusader."  Her  ver- 
satility enabled  her  to  cater  successfully  to  the  diverse  tastes  of 
the  public,  and  to  meet  all  the  contingencies  of  her  position 
with  promj)tness. 

Each  issue  contained  a  strong  leader,  one  or  more  spicy 
articles,  and  a  sprinkling  of  bint  mots — all  her  own — while  not 
unfrequently  she  would  add  to  these  a  story  and  a  poem.  The 
amount  of  mental  labor  which  she  performed  during  this  year 
is  almost  incredible.  Yet  she  sustained  herself  unflaggingly, 
reaping  her  reward  in  the  success  of  her  efforts  and  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  doing  what  she  could,  through  this 
medium,  to  speed  the  right  and  ban  the  wrong.  Many  of  her 
poems  and  pithy  essays  found  their  way  into  northern  and 
western  periodicals,  and  were  spoken  of  in  terms  of  high  com- 
mendation. 

30 


466  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH 

At  the  close  of  the  year  1859,  Mrs.  Bryan  was  called  home 
by  the  delicate  health  of  her  mother,  and  finding  herself  in 
need  of  rest,  determined  to  resign  her  position  as  editor,  and 
accept  the  less  responsible  one  of  contributor  to  the  "  Southern 
Field  and  Fireside."  She  had  been  engaged  in  this  capacity, 
with  her  usual  success,  for  four  months,  when  the  cloud,  which 
had  so  long  brooded  over  her,  was  lifted,  and  a  way  opened  for 
her  return  to  her  western  home. 

While  we  rejoice  in  this  more  cheerful  view  of  the  life  of  the 
woman,  we  trust  that  the  intellect,  which  has  shown  itself,  thus 
early,  so  strong  and  comprehensive,  will  continue  to  demon- 
strate these  characteristics  in  the  old  way.  Already  Mrs. 
Bryan  has  written  enough — in  her  best  vein — to  fill  more  than 
one  volume ;  and  now  that  she  has  retired  for  a  time  from 
"  regular  service,"  we  at  least  hope  that  she  will  collect 
these  waifs,  and  give  them  "  a  local  habitation  and  a  name  "  in 
literature. 

The  specimens*  which  follow  show  the  remarkable  versatil- 
ity of  this  writer,  and  may  be  considered  a  fair  presentation  of 
her  variolas  styles,  if  we  except  the  dramatic  power  revealed  in 
her  novelettes,  no  one  of  which  chances  to  be  in  our  possession. 

Li  the  essays,  "  Hunger  is  Power,"  "  How  Shall  Women 
Write,"  and  "  Give  us  Men,"  we  find  a  masculine  grasp  and 
vigor,  which  it  is  difficult  to  reconcile  with  Mrs.  Bryan's  youth, 
and  the  exquisitely  womanly  feeling  apparent  in  the  sketch, 
"  Cutting  Robbie's  Hair,"  or  the  tender  poem,  "  My  Missing 
Flower ;"  while  in  "  The  Hour  when  we  shall  Meet  Again,"  and 
"  Lost  in  the  Clouds,"  is  revealed  a  lofty  and  sustained  imagi- 
native power  which  belongs  only  to  the  true  poet. 

Most  excellent  gifts  has  Mrs.  Bryan  in  her  keeping.  To  cut 
and  burnish  them  to  their  possible  perfection,   making  every 

*  The  preface  will  explain  why  several  of  these  were  omitted. 


MARY    E.   BRYAN.  467 

point  to  refract  and  reflect  light,  is  a  work  of  years,  which  we 
are  sure  she  will  not  neglect. 

Confirming  our  own  estimate  of  this  youthful  genius,  we 
give  below  the  opinion  of  a  distinguished  writer  in  the  extreme 
South  (Florida),  and  an  extract  from  the  eclectic  columns  of  the 
"  Boston  Transcript." 

Says  the  southern  writer: 

Mrs.  Bryan's  versatility  of  genius  is  the  result  of  a  rare  combination 
of  perceptive  and  reflective  faculties.  The  surface  of  life,  with  all  its 
varying  phases,  is  apparent  to  her  ready  perception,  while  her  penetra- 
tive intellect  is  busy  with  the  pearls  that  lie  beneath.  Through  all  her 
prose,  occur  flashes  of  poetic  thought,  while  her  poetry  is  alive  with  true 
inspiration.  In  this  her  idealistic  faculty  is  plainly  apparent,  as  well  as  her 
love  of  nature  and  her  power  of  perceiving  in  objects  termed  inanimate, 
that  indwelling  spirit  of  conscious  life,  constituting  their  higher  beauty.  As 
an  illustration  of  this,  "  The  Naiad's  Gift,"  though  it  has  no  pretensions  to  the 
loftiness  of  conception  that  distinguishes  her  more  important  poems,  impresses 
one  like  a  pure  and  clearly-cut  crystal. 

We  clip  the  following  from  the  "  Boston  Transcript :" 

Though  very  youthful,  below  twenty  still,  Mrs.  Bryan  is  already 
widely  known  through  the  South  as  editress  and  writer,  being  in  fact 
one  of  the  favorite  authors  in  that  portion  of  our  country,  the  produc- 
tions of  tier  pen  ever  winning  a  hearty  reception  from  a  large  circle  of 
readers.  But  she  has  scarcely  been  heard  of  among  us  as  yet.  When  we 
consider  her  youth,  the  great  disadvantages  she  must  have  labored  under, 
on  an  isolated  plantation,  far  from  public  libraries,  and  far  from  social 
groups  of  professed  literary  laborers  and  artists,  it  seems  to  us  that  her 
poems  reveal  the  aspirations  of  a  richly-endowed  and  earnest  genius,  and 
the  marks  of  a  good  range  of  culture. 

If  with  the  best  models  of  literary  art  constantly  in  view  as  guides 
and  inspirers,  she  will  strive  with  that  heroic  patience  of  toil  which  is 
the  price  of  all  greatness,  to  store  and  perfect  her  faculties,  to  extend 
and  deepen  the  grasp  of  her  experience,  and  to  master  the  plastic  secrets 
of  style,  we  predict  for  her  a  brilliant  and  permanent  place  among  the 
gifted  and  victorious  of  her  sex  and  land.     But  our  prophecy  falters  with 


468  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

heavy  misgivings  when  we  remember  how  very  few  out  of  the  multitude 
of  wealthy  poetic  natures,  with  happily  organized  brains  and  delicately 
attuned  sensibilities,  possess  that  indomitable  tenacity  of  will,  that  per- 
severing, assimilative,  self-fired  and  self-criticising  application  to  study  and 
practice,  required  to  conquer  the  disheartening  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
literary  art  and  experience,  and  to  win  the  prize  of  enduring  fame. 
Thousands  aspire ;  hundreds  fitfully  struggle  ;  scores  meritoriously  work ;  one 
or  two  here  and  there,  through  all  consecrating  devotedness  of  toil,  succeed. 
Nevertheless,  genius,  as  it  naturally  rallies  a  noble  courage  within, 
should  always  be  generously  recognized  and  cheered  from  without.  That 
the  fair  young  authoress  of  Florida,  who  sings  from  amidst  the  myrtles  and 
magnolias  of  her  father's  plantation  on  the  banks  of  the  lovely  Ocklos- 
konee,  deserves  such  recognition  and  encouragement,  we  think  every  one 
who  reads  "My  Missing  Flowers"  will  admit. 

CUTTING  ROBBIE'S  HAIR. 

And  so  this  little  household  flower  of  ours  must  be  shorn  of  some  of  its 
superfluous  beauties.  Even  roses  and  geraniums  must  be  pruned  sometimes, 
and  these  uncut,  silken  rings,  with  the  golden  sunshine  of  three  summers 
entangled  in  their  meshes,  must  make  the  acquaintance  of  scissors  at  last. 
Grandpapa  says  so,  and  adds  that  if  it  is  not  done  shortly,  the  low  plum 
boughs  will  make  another  Absalom  of  Robbie,  sometime,  when  the  blue-eyed 
gander  is  in  hot  pursuit. 

There  is  no  denying  that  the  curls  need  trimming ;  they  are  too  many  and 
too  thick,  and  they  make  the  little  head  droop  uneasily  to  one  side,  like  a 
half  blown  moss  rose-bud  under  the  weight  of  its  own  moss,  and  straggle 
sometimes  into  the  mouth  and  eyes.  Yes,  they  must  be  cut ;  but  it  seems 
such  a  pity !  Little  curls  that  we  have  twined  around  our  fingers  when  all 
wet  from  the  morning  bath  ;  little  curls  that  we  have  played  with  while 
singing  the  evening  lullaby  ;  little  curls  that  our  tears  have  fallen  upon  when 
the  baby  eyes  were  shut  in  sleep !  Ah !  only  mothers  know  how  dear  such 
curls  are  to  mother's  hearts. 

Here  are  the  scissors.  Robbie  must  sit  very  still  now  while  his  hair  is 
being  cut.  Why,  sir,  why  do  you  smile  and  look  at  me  so  beamingly  with 
your  blue  eyes  ?  How  do  you  know  that  I  am  not  going  to  cut  off  that  saucy 
head  of  yours  with  these  great,  sharp,  cruel  scissors !  Oh,  holy  faith  of 
childhood!     If  we  could  only  trust  our  God  as  implicitly  as  babes  do  their 


MARY    E.   BRYAN.  469 

mothers !  "  Except  ye  become  as  little  children,  ye  shall  not  enter  the  king- 
dow  of  heaven." 

Be  very  still,  now,  while  I  comb  out  these  threads  of  shining  floss.  The 
mother  is  the  first  barber  to  her  boy  ;  no  other  fingers  can  perform  the  sweet 
office  so  gently ;  but  when  fifteen  or  twenty  years  have  flown,  rougher  hands 
will  comb  and  cut  these  locks,  all  bronzed  by  suns  and  winds,  and  clustering 
above  the  brow  of  manhood.     The  white-aproned,  clean-handed  barber  will 

then  arrange  them  in  the  latest  style  of  trimming ;  pomading,  perfu ,  no  ; 

my  boy  will  not  be  a  dandy  !  by  these  strong  limbs  and  the  sturdy  look  in 
those  eyes — no. 

But  to  think  the  down  of  manhood  will  gather  on  this  cherry  upper-lip 
and  on  chin  and  cheek,  dimpled  as  though  by  the  touch  of  an  angel's  finger ! 
To  think  that  this  round  neck  of  alabaster  will  be  choked  up  with  a  man's 

necktie,  and  these  lily-bud  feet  will  wear  high-heeled  boots  and .     Faugh  ! 

I  will  not  think  of  it.  I  cannot  realize  that  this  fair  baby  of  mine — but  three 
summers  out  of  Paradise,  and  still  smiling  in  his  sleep,  remembering  what 
the  angels  said  there — shall  ever  lie  so  metamorphosed. 

And  yet  the  boy's  babyhood  is  rapidly  fleeting,  and  the  severing  of  these 
ringlets  seems  like  cutting  the  golden  thread  that  links  his  infancy  to  his 
childhood.  Oh!  Robbie,  I  can  call  you  "baby"  but  little  longer.  You 
blue-eyed  elf!  you  are  already  rebelling  at  being  treated  as  one.  You  had 
rather  run,  now,  after  your  painted  wagon,  than  lie  in  your  rose-curtained 
crib  and  hear  me  sing  of  the  baby  whose  cradle  was  the  tree-top,  and  whose 
nurse  was  the  wind.  You  will  not  wear  your  corals,  because  grandpa  says 
they  are  for  babies,  not  for  men  ;  you  had  rather  hunt  hen's  nests  than  play 
bo-peep ;  and  when  I  hold  out  my  arms  to  you,  as  you  stand  in  the  doorway 
twirling  your  hat,  you  turn  your  head  on  one  side,  like  a  half-tamed  bird 
a-perch  on  one's  finger,  while  your  dancing  eyes  seem  to  say,  "You'll  see — 
you'll  see.  I'll  soon  take  flight !"'  Pretty  soon  you  will  not  believe  in  the 
wolf  that  talked  to  Red-Riding-IIood,  and  lose  faith  in  Santa  Claus. 

1  cannot  keep  the  bud  in  its  sheath ;  I  cannot  stay  the  little  bark  that 
slips  so  rapidly  down  the  hurrying  stream  of  life.  Soon,  the  rill  will  broaden 
into  a  river,  and  the  realm  of  roses  and  sunny  skies  be  passed.  And  the  gold 
of  these  ringlets  shall  be  dimmed  by  time,  and  the  roses,  perchance,  drop 
from  these  pretty  cheeks,  and  sorrow  and  sin,  it  may  be,  cloud  the  clear, 
blue  heaven  of  these  innocent  eyes ! 

There  !  I  am  crying.  How  grandpapa  would  laugh  if  he  caught  me,  and 
say  it  was  because  I  wanted  the  curls  to  stay  and  make  a  girl  of  his  boy. 


470  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

See !  There  are  tears  glistening  in  these  sunny  clusters  of  hair,  like  dew 
among  the  golden-blossomed  jasmin  vines,  and  your  eyes  are  looking  at 
me  with  wide-opened  wonder,  and  your  red  lip  beginning  to  quiver  with 
ready  sympathy.  Oh,  Robbie !  even  if  the  worst  should  come,  and  I  should 
have  to  lay  this  bright  head,  with  its  locks  of  undimmed  lustre,  under  a 
coffin-lid,  and  see  the  grass  grow  between  my  darling  and  the  bosom  he  once 
slept  upon,  I  should  still  thank  God  for  having  given  him,  for  having  crowned 
my  life  with  the  holy  blessing  of  motherhood  ;  for  it  is  such  little  arms  as 
these  around  our  necks,  Robbie,  that  make  us  feel  strong  to  do  and  to  suffer ; 
it  is  drawing  such  little  heads  as  these  close,  close  to  our  breasts,  that  keeps 
the  hearts  of  some  of  us  mothers  from  breaking 

There  1  that  is  grandpapa's  step  upon  the  stair — and  the  task  is  just  com- 
pleted— the  little  lamb  is  shorn.  Look  at  this  bright  heap  of  glistening  silk, 
such  as  Persian  looms  never  wove  into  richest  fabric.  Here  is  "  golden 
fleece  "  for  you,  such  as  never  the  lover  of  Medea  sought.  You  did  not  know 
that  such  a  glittering  wealth  grew  on  your  little  head — did  you,  blue-eyed 
baby? 

No,  you  must  not  clutch  it  with  those  destructive  fingers.  Go — grand- 
papa is  calling  you — let  him  see  his  little  man  ;  but  leave  me  these — the  first 
curls  cut  from  my  baby's  head.  I  will  put  them  away  to  remind  me,  in 
other  days,  of  his  sweet,  lost  infancy. 


THE  HOUR  WHEN  WE  SHALL  MEET  AGAIN. 

•  When  shall  it  be?"     I  see  thy  red  lip  now 

Tremble  with  the  low  spoken  question,  and  thine  eyes 
Search  mine,  until  I  feel  the  hot  tears  flow 

To  the  repressing  lids.     I  answered  then  with  sighs, 
But  I  am  stronger  now — the  hour  is  past, 

And  the  blue  billows  of  a  tropic  main 
Break  between  thee  and  me.     Look  up ! — at  last 

I'll  answer  thee.     Aye,  we  shall  meet  again. 

Not  in  an  hour  which  any  tongue  of  Time — 

Brazen  or  silver — may  ring  on  the  air, 
Not  when  the  voice  of  streams  in  joyful  chime 

Summons  young  April — shaking  from  her  hair 


MARY    E.   BRYAN.  471 

Clusters  of  scented  hyacinths,  moist  and  blue 

As  thine  own  dewy  eyes ;  nor  when  the  shade 
Of  whispering  elms,  of  summer  ripened  hue, 

Bathes  my  hot  brow  in  some  sequestered  glade  ; 
Nor  when  the  autumn  clusters  of  the  vine 

Hang  purple  in  the  sun,  and  the  faint  breath 
Of  brookside  asters,  and  the  moaning  pine 

Alike — and  sadly — prophesy  of  death  ; 
Nor  when  I  droop  my  weary  head,  as  now, 

Upon  my  hand,  beside  the  winter  hearth — 
Shall  thy  quick  step,  thy  kiss  upon  my  brow 

Make  me  forget  that  ever  grief  had  birth. 
No,  never  more  shall  sunlight's  golden  sheen, 

Nor  the  pale  stars — a  weird  and  watchful  train — 
Nor  yet  the  moonlight — chilly  and  serene, 

Look  on  the  hour  when  we  shall  meet  again. 


Yet  we  shall  meet.     Listen !  One  winter  day, 

Standing  where  late  the  gentians  were  a-bloom. 
You  said  when  life's  red  current  ebbed  away, 

That  we  should,  like  the  flowers,  sink  to  a  tomb 
Of  dust  and  nothingness  upon  the  breast 

Of  earth,  whence  we  bad  drawn  our  sustenance, 
And  that  the  sleep  would  be  eternal  rest  ; 

And  then  you  met  my  anxious,  upward  glance 
And  smiled,  and  said  that  the  mysterious  scheme, 

Which  in  the  world's  dim  ages  priests  had  spun, 
Of  life  beyond,  was  but  a  dotard's  dream. 

And  I  believed  you,  for  you  were  the  Sim 
To  my  unbudding  soul ;  but  that  is  past. 

I  have  talked  with  my  soul  in  the  still  hours, 
And,  with  bared  brow,  prayed  in  the  temples  vast 

Which  Nature  rears,  and  when  the  dreaded  power 
<  if  Death  had  stamped  pale  foreheads,  I  have  knelt 

To  catch  the  meaning  in  the  dying  eyes  ; 
And  so  have  solved  the  mystery;  I  have  felt 

Your  teachings  false  ;  the  spirit  never  dies. 


472  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

There  is  a  world  beyond,  and  we  shall  meet — 

The  thought  falls  like  a  dead  flower  on  my  heart- 
Meet  only  once — at  the  dread  Judgment  Seat, 

Olasp  hands,  look  in  each  cither's  eyes  and — part, 
And  part  forever  !     Oh!  by  all  the  years 

My  soul  has  kept  thy  memory  enshrined, 
By  all  my  burning  prayers,  and  by  my  tears, 

Ami  by  the  love  to  long  despair  resigned, 
I  charge  thee  let  that  single  glance  be  kind — 

Full  of  unuttered  love  as  dying  breath 
Breathed  out  in  kisses — when  the  arms  entwin'd 

Shall  soon  be  severed  by  the  grasp  of  death. 
The  gulf  that  then  shall  part  us,  is  more  deep 

And  dark  than  death.     Oh  !  let  that  last  look  be 
One  of  immortal  love,  that  I  may  keep 

Its  sacred  memory  through  eternity. 


MY    MISSING    FLOWER. 

The  clay  has  glided  past  us,  like  a  bark — 

A  fairy  bark  on  an  enchanted  sea ; 

And  now  its  gold  and  crimson  pennon  fades 

In  the  far  West,  and  the  pale  stars  look  forth 

To  tell  us  that  the  day  has  sailed  away 

Into  the  mighty  ocean  of  the  Past, 

And  shall  return  no  more. 

How  fair  it  was  : 
With  all  June's  balminess  in  its  soft  breath, 
And  April's  liquid  azure  in  its  skies — 
Soft  as  the  eyes  of  cradled  babes  that  lie 
And  smile  through  transient  tears.     The  earth  has  waked 
From  its  long  winter  dream,  and  beckons  now 
For  Spring  to  come  and  crown  its  sun-kissed  brow 
With  rosy  chaplets.     She  will  come,  I  know  ; 
Her  herald,  the  swift  swallow,  lias  proclaimed 
That  she  but  lingers  in  the  tropic's  bowers 


MARY    E.   BRYAN.  473 

To  weave  a  richer  garland  for  her  brow, 
And  ere  long  she  will  braid  the  leafless  vines 
With  gem-like  flowers,  and  write  her  magic,  name, 
In  golden  daisies  on  the  emerald  turf, 
And  yonder  skeleton  oak  shall  gaily  toss 
Its  green  and  fragrant  tresses  in  the  breeze, 
And  feathered  misers,  in  the  clustered  leaves, 
Will  hide  their  jewelled  baskets  brimmed  with  pearls, 
Each  round,  white  pearl,  filled  with  a  little  heart, 
That  shall  awake  to  life,  to  joy  and  song, 
When  April  sheds  her  last,  sweet,  childish  tears 
On  May's  maturer  bosom. 

'Twas  a  day 
To  call  up  olden  memories,  for  the  spell 
Of  its  mild  loveliness  soothed  the  sick  soul 
To  blissful  dreams,  and  fancy  wandered  back 
To  childhood's  fairy  land,  and  strung  again 
Bright  memories  on  the  silken  thread  of  thought, 
As  erst  in  youth,  beneath  the  maple's  shade, 
We  strung  forget-me-nots  on  silvery  grass — 
Each  sound  that — like  a  pebble  softly  dropped 
Into  a  full  and  tranquil  lake — has  broke 
Upon  the  dreamy  quiet  of  this  day — 
The  chanticleer's  shrill  crowing,  the  light  laugh 
Of  gleeful  childhood  and  the  western  wind, 
Playing  a  summer  tune  among  the  pines, 
Has  filled  my  soul  with  sadness,  vague  and  sweet, 
Like  that  which  steals  across  the  heart  that  lists 
To  faint,  far  music  at  the  midnight  hour. 
Is  it  because  Spring's  first  and  halcyon  days 
Were  childhood's  carnival,  that  they  thus  wake 
Such  dreams  and  memories? 

The  young  Spring  marks 
Her  earliest  footsteps  in  the  violets,  sweet 
As  her  own  nectared  lip,  and  I.  to-day, 
Have  marvelled  if  this  balmy  breeze  has  found 


474  WOMEN    OF    TOE    SOUTH. 

Any  wild  violets  in  its  wanderings 

By  stream  and  field,  liill-side  and  sheltered  glen. 

Their  breath  has  mingled  strangely  with  my  dreams, 

And  their  blue  eyes  have  haunted  me  all  day, 

Minding  me  of  this  time  one  year  ago, 

And  of  the  tiny  hand  that  brought  wild  flowers 

And  laid  them  on  my  open  page,  and  claimed, 

As  the  reward,  a  kiss  pressed  on  the  lips 

Of  dewy  crimson  that  were  raised  to  mine, 

While  the  small  feet  stood  tip-toe,  and  the  curls 

Were  thrown  back  from  the  baby-brow,  and  bright 

Glowed  the  young  cheek,  fresh  from  the  kisses  sweet, 

Of  the  spring  breezes. 

Ah!  my  little  boy, 
The  Spring  shall  come  with  all  her  wealth  of  flowers, 
Of  singing  birds,  sunshine,  and  whispering  leaves, 
And  the  blue  eyes  of  violets,  'neath  the  sky, 
Shall  open  everywhere,  but  no  dear  hand, 
Dimpled  and  soft  as  a  half-budded  flower, 
Shall  gather  Spring's  first  offerings  from  the  fields, 
And  lay  them  on  the  page  o'er  which  I  dream  ; 
No  wondering  eyes  shall  shame  my  falling  tears; 
No  red  lips  kiss  them  from  my  burning  cheek. 

My  little  one,  I  dream,  in  the  long  night, 

That  thy  small  fingers  on  my  bosom  lie, 

Soothing  as  was  their  wont,  my  throbbing  heart ; 

I  stretch  my  arms  to  clasp  thee,  and  I  wake 

To  know  that  thou  art  far  away,  and  weep 

In  utter  loneliness,  longing  with  all 

A  mother's  passionate  love,  for  the  low  voice, 

In  scarce  articulate  murmurs,  to  repeat 

My  name  and  say  some  tender,  broken  words, 

Dying  away,  as  sleep  asserts  her  reign, 

And  lays  her  finger  on  the  parted  lips. 

Ah !  Spring  may  pour  her  vernal  treasures  forth 

Upon  the  sunny  hills,  and  fill  the  trees 


MARY    E.   BRYAN.  475 

With  warbling  birds  ;  but  mine  sings  far  away — 
I  may  not  hear  his  song. 

Flower  of  my  life, 
Sole  blossom  of  its  blighted  spring — my  boy 
Whose  sunny  head  a  mother's  gentle  hand 
Laid  on  my  bosom,  while  I  was  almost 
A  child  myself  in  years,  may  this  young  Spring 
Whose  coining  quickens  now  the  pulse  of  earth, 
Kiss  no  fair  roses  into  life,  whose  bloom 
Shall  vie  with  those  that  opened  on  thy  lips, 
And  flushed  thy  dimpled  cheeks ;  may  thy  pure  eyes 
Know  but  such  gentle  tears  as  violets  weep, 
And  when  each  night  thou  kneelest,  at  this  blest  hour, 
Beside  my  mother's  knee,  whom  thou  call'st  thine, 
May  thy  own  absent  Mary's  name  be  breathed 
In  thy  pure  orisons,  and  when  sleep  shuts 
Thy  innocent  eyes,  may  the  kind  spirit  of  dreams 
Bring  some  sweet  memory  of  her,  who  first 
Cradled  thy  head  upon  her  beating  breast. 


ANNA    PEYRE    DINNIES. 

Every  successful  writer  is  identified  with  some  one  produc- 
tion—book, essay,  or  poem— which  either  struck  fitly  upon  an 
epoch,  or,  what  is  better,  touched  a  chord  in  the  great  common 
heart.  Hence  we  call  one  author,  "  Proserpine,"  another, 
"The  Sinless  Child,"  another,  "Babie  Bell,"  another,  "Beulah," 
another,  "  Varana  Vane,"  another,  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  etc. 
Of  Mrs.  Pinnies,  it  is  always  said  :  "  She  wrote  '  I  could  have 
stemmed  Misfortune's  Tide.'' " 

Anna  Peyre  Shackleford,  the  daughter  of  Judge  Shackle- 
ford,  of  South  Carolina,  was  born  in  Georgetown,  in  that  State, 
but  removed  soon  after,  with  her  parents,  to  Charleston,  where 
she  was  educated  at  the  school  of  the  Misses  Ramsay.  These 
gifted  daughters  of  Dr.  Ramsay,  the  historian,  seem  to  have 
possessed  either  a  very  happy  tact  in  developing  the  poetic 
faculty  in  their  pupils,  or  to  have  been  blessed  with  an  unusual 
proportion  of  poet  pupils. 

In  1830,  Miss  Shackleford  married  John  C.  Pinnies,  of  St. 
Louis,  Missouri,  and  there  resided  until  their  late  removal  to 
New  Orleans. 

Mrs.  Pinnies'  poems  were  first  given  to  the  world  under  the 
signature  of  "  Moina."  She  writes  with  much  force,  fervor, 
and  tenderness,  and  never  fails  to  reach  the  heart  of  her 
readers. 

In  1846,  she  published  a  work  entitled  "  The  Floral  Tear," 
an  elegant,  illustrated  volume,  embracing  a  hundred  poems, 
assorted  in  groups  as  bouquets  for  the  twelve  months. 

476 


ANNA    PEYRE    DINNIES.  477 


THE  AVIFE. 

I  could  have  stemmed  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer, 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear ; 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  he  "  alone." 

I  could — I  think  I  could  have  brooked, 

E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 
Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  looked 

With  less  of  love  than  now  ; 
For  then  I  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  still  my  own 
To  win  thee  hack,  and,  whilst  I  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  been  "alone." 

But  thus  to  see  from  day  to  day, 

Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek, 
And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away, 

Unnumbered,  slow,  and  meek; 
To  meet  thy  smiles  of  tenderness, 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless, 

And  feel  I'll  be  "  alone." 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  stronger, 
As  filled  with  heavenward  trust,  they  say, 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer ; 
Nay,  dearest,  'tis  too  much — this  heart 

Must  break  when  thou  art  gone  ; 
It  must  not  he  ;  we  may  not  part ; 

I  could  not  live  "alone!" 


478  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


LOVE'S  MESSENGERS. 

Ye  little  stars,  that  twinkle  high 

In  the  dark  vault  of  heaven, 
Like  spangles  on  the  deep  hlue  sky, 
Perhaps  to  you  'tis  given 

To  shed  your  lucid  radiance  now 
Upon  my  absent  loved  one's  brow. 

Ye  fleecy  clouds,  that  swiftly  glide 

O'er  earth's  oft-darkened  way, 
Floating  along  in  grace  and  pride, 
Perhaps  your  shadows  stray 
E'en  now  across  the  starry  light 
That  guides  my  wanderer  forth  to-night. 

Ye  balmy  breezes  sweeping  by, 

And  shedding  freshness  round, 
Ye  too,  may  haply,  as  ye  fly, 

With  health  and  fragrance  crowned, 
Linger  a  moment,  soft  and  light, 
To  sport  amid  his  tresses  bright. 

Then  stars,  and  clouds,  and  breezes  bear 

My  heart's  best  wish  to  him ; 
And  say  the  feelings  glowing  there 
Nor  time  nor  change  can  dim  ; 
That  be  success  or  grief  his  share, 
My  love  still  brightening  shall  appear. 


WEDDED  LOVE. 

Come,  rouse  thee,  dearest,  'tis  not  well 

To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o'er  the  cares  that  swell 

Life's  current  to  a  flood. 
As  brooks,  and  torrents,  rivers,  all 
Increase  the  gulf  in  which  they  fall, 


AXNA    PEYKE    DINNIES.  479 

Such  thoughts,  by  gathering  up  tlie  rills 
Of  lesser  griefs,  spread  real  ills 
And  with  their  gloomy  shades  conceal 
The  landmarks  Hope  would  else  reveal. 

Come,  rouse  thee,  now  :  I  know  thy  mind. 

And  would  its  strength  awaken  ; 
Proud,  gifted,  noble,  ardent,  kind — 

Strange  thou  shouldst  be  thus  shaken  ! 
But  rouse  afresh  each  energy, 
And  be  what  Heaven  intended  thee ; 
Throw  from  thy  thoughts  this  wearying  weight, 
And  prove  thy  spirit  firmly  great ; 
I  would  not  see  thee  bend  below 
The  angry  storms  of  earthly  woe. 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  soul 

"Which  warms  thee  into  life — 
Each  spring  which  can  its  powers  control. 

Familiar  to  thy  wife ; 
For  deemst  thou  she  had  stooped  to  bind 
Her  fate  unto  a  common  mind? 
The  eagle-like  ambition  nursed 
From  childhood  in  her  heart,  had  first 
Consumed  with  its  Promethean  flame, 
The  shrine — then  sunk  her  soul  to  shame. 

Then  rouse  thee,  dearest,  from  the  dream 

That  fetters  now  thy  powers  : 
Shake  off  this  gloom — Hope  sheds  a  beam 

To  gild  each  cloud  that  lowers  ; 
And  though  at  present  seems  so  far 
The  wished-for  goal — a  guiding  star, 
With  peaceful  ray,  would  light  thee  on, 
Fntil  its  utmost  bounds  be  won  ; 
That  quenchless  ray  thou'lt  ever  prove 
In  fond,  undying  wedded  love. 


LOUISA  S.  McCORD. 

To  combine  the  essential  qualifications  of  a  political  writer, 
philosopher,  and  poet,  would  seem  to  require  a  mind  of  mascu- 
line calibre  and  resource  :  such  a  mind,  certainly,  as  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  think  incompatible  with  the  temperaments 
and  surroundings  of  southern  women  ;  yet  Mrs.  McCord,  a  native 
of  Columbia,  South  Carolina,  has  presented  to  the  world  these 
several  aspects,  and  won  distinction  in  each. 

Louisa  S.  Cheves,  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Langdon  Cheves,  a 
leading  lawyer  and  politician  of  South  Carolina,  was  born  in 
that  State  in  1810.  With  the  advantages  of  a  generous  and 
careful  culture,  she  began  very  early  to  develop  native  abilities 
of  a  high  order,  as  well  as  aspirations  far  beyond  her  years. 

In  1840,  she  married  Col.  David  J.  McCord,  a  genial,  scholarly 
man,  who  had  risen  to  eminence  in  his  profession  of  the  law. 
Allied  thus  nearly  to  men  of  strong  political  bias  and  influence, 
Mrs.  McCord's  enthusiastic  nature  became  thoroughly  imbued 
with  southern  patriotism.  She  carefully  examined  all  questions 
of  State  policy,  and  wielded  a  vigorous  pen  in  defence  of  what 
she  conceived  to  be  its  vital  principles. 

In  1848,  she  published  "  Sophisms  of  the  Protective  Policy," 
a  translation  from  the  French  of  Basteat,  and  a  volume  of  poems 
entitled  "  My  Dreams."  In  1851,  her  tragedy,  "  Cains 
Gracchus"  was  issued  by  a  New  York  house.  Since  1S49  she 
has  been  a  contributor  to  "  The  Southern  Quarterly  Review," 
"  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  and  "  De  Bow's  Review." 

480 


LOUISA    S.    lie  CORD.  481 

These  essays  are  characterized,  not  only  by  sharp  logic  and 
scintillating  wit,  but  by  a  spirit  of  earnest,  womanly  conserva- 
tion. Among  the  most  prominent  are  "  Justice  and  Fraternity," 
"  The  Eight  to  Labor,"  "  Diversity  of  the  Races,  its  bearing 
upon  Negro  Slavery,"  "  Negro  and  White  Slavery,"  "  Enfran- 
chisement of  Women,"  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  "Carey  on  the 
Slave-trade,"  "  Negro  Mania,"  "  Woman  and  her  Needs," 
"  British  Philanthropy  and  American  Slavery,"  "  Charity 
which  does  not  Begin  at  Home,"  and  "A  Letter  to  the  Duchess 
of  Sutherland  from  a  Lady  of  South  Carolina." 

In  discussing  the  Woman's  Rights  movement,  she  thus 
replies  to  a  proposition  of  an  English  review,  that  "  a  reason 
must  be  given  why  anything  should  be  permitted  to  one  person 
and  interdicted  to  another."  "A  reason! — a  reason  why  man 
cannot  drink  fire  and  breathe  water!  A  scientific  answer  about 
hydrogen  and  oxygen  will  not  answer  the  purpose.  These  are 
facts,  not  reasons.  Why  ?  Why  ?  Why  is  anything  on  God's 
earth  what  it  is  1  Can  Miss  Martineau  tell  ?  We  cannot.  God 
has  made  it  so,  and  reason,  instinct  and  experience  teach  us  its 
uses.     Woman,  Nature  teaches  you  yours." 

Mrs.  McCord  illustrates  her  own  theories.  Residing  during 
the  winter  upon  her  plantation  of  Fort  Mott,  a  place  of  historic 
interest,  she  attends  to  the  wants  of  the  negroes  in  the  most 
tender  manner,  and  conducts  a  hospital  upon  her  own  grounds ; 
at  the  same  time  bringing  into  play  numerous  accomplishments 
in  the  education  of  her  children. 

Mrs.  McCord's  poetry  is  the  clear  and  unpretending  utter- 
ance of  her  nature.  Of  her  tragedy  of  "  Caius  Gracchus  "  it 
has  been  justly  said  :* 

"  It  is  a  dramatic  poem  for  the  closet,  balanced  in  its  philo- 
sophy and  argument,  Cornelia  wisely  tempering  the  democratic 
fervor  of  her    son.     Many  sound,  pithy  aphorisms  of  conduct 

*  Duyckinck's  Cyclopaedia. 

31 


482  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

may  be  extracted  from  this  piece,  all  expressed  with  purity  and 
precision." 

CORNELIA  AND  GRACCHUS. 

GRACCHUS. 

Wolves  breed  not  lambs,  nor  can  the  lioness 
Rear  fawns  among  her  litter.     You  but  chide 
The  spirit,  mother,  which  is  born  from  you. 

CORNELIA. 

Curb  it,  my  son,  and  watch  against  ambition ! 
Half  demon  and  half  god,  she  oft  misleads 
With  the  bold  face  of  virtue.     I  know  well 
The  breath  of  discontent  is  loud  in  Rome ; 
And  a  hoarse  murmuring  vengeance  smolders  there 
Against  the  tyrannous  rule  which,  iron  shod, 
Doth  trample  out  man's  life.     The  crisis  comes, 
But  oh  !  beware,  my  son,  how  you  shall  force  it ! 

GRACCHUS. 

Nay,  let  it  come,  that  dreaded  day  of  doom, 
When  by  the  audit  of  his  cruel  wrongs 
Heaped  by  the  rich  oppressor  on  the  crowd 
Of  struggling  victims,  he  must  stand  condemned 
To  vomit  forth  the  ill-got  gains  which  gorge 
His  luxury  to  repletion.     Let  it  come ! 
The  world  can  sleep  no  longer.     Reason  wakes 
To  know  man's  rights,  and  forward  progress  points. 

CORNELIA. 

By  reason  led,  and  peaceful  wisdom  nursed, 
All  progress  is  for  good.     But  the  deep  curse 
Of  bleeding  nations  follows  in  the  track 
Of  mad  ambition,  which  doth  cheat  itself 
To  find  a  glory  in  its  lust  for  rule ; 
Which,  piling  private  ill  on  public  wrong, 


LOUISA    S.   McCORD.  483 

Beneath  the  garb  of  patriotism  hides 

Its  large-mawed  cravings;  and  would  thoughtless  plunge 

To  every  change,  however  riot  waits, 

With  feud  intestine,  hy  mad  uproar  driven, 

And  red-eyed  murder  to  reproach  the  deed. 

Death  in  its  direst  forms  doth  wait  on  such. 

GRACCHUS. 

Man  lives  to  die,  and  there's  no  better  way 

To  let  the  shackled  spirit  find  its  freedom 

Than  in  a  glorious  combat  'gainst  oppression. 

I  would  not  grudge  the  breath  lost  in  the  struggle. 

CORNELIA. 

Nor  I,  when  duty  calls.     I  am  content, 
May  but  my  son  prove  worthy  of  the  crisis ; 
Not  shrinking  from  the  trial,  nor  yet  leaping 
Beyond  the  marked  outline  of  licensed  right ; 
Curbing  his  passions  to  his  duty's  rule ; 
Giving  his  country  all — life,  fortune,  fame — 
And  only  clutching  back,  with  miser's  care, 
His  all  untainted  honor.     But  take  heed  ! 
The  world  doth  set  itself  on  stilts,  to  wear 
The  countenance  of  some  higher,  better  thing. 
'Tis  well  to  seek  this  wisely ;  but  with  haste 
Grasping  too  high,  like  child  beyond  its  reach, 
It  trips  in  the  aspiring,  and  thus  falls 
To  lowlier  condition.     Rashness  drags 
Remorse  and  darkest  evil  in  her  train. 
Pause,  ere  the  cry  of  suffering  pleads  to  heaven 
Against  this  fearful  mockery  of  right ; 
This  license  wild,  which  smothers  liberty 
While  feigning  to  embrace  it. 

GRACCHUS. 

Thought  fantastic 
Doth  drapery  evil  thus  with  unsketched  ills. 
No  heart-sick  maid  nor  dream-struck  boy  am  I. 


484  WOMEN     OF    THE    SOUTH. 

To  scare  myself  with  these.     There's  that  in  man 
Doth  long  to  rise  by  nature.     Ever  he, 
Couching  in  lethargy,  doth  wrong  himself. 

CORNELIA. 

Most  true,  and  more.     I  reverence  human  mind  ; 

And  with  a  mingled  love  and  pride  I  kneel 

To  nature's  inborn  majesty  in  man. 

But  as  I  reverence,  therefore  would  I  lend 

My  feeble  aid  this  mighty  power  to  lead 

To  its  true  aim  and  end.     Most  often  'tis 

When  crowds  do  wander  wide  of  right,  and  fall 

To  foul  misuse  of  highest  purposes, 

The  madness  of  their  leaders  drags  them  on. 

I  would  not  check  aspiring,  justly  poised; 

But  rather  bid  you  "on,"  where  light  is  clear, 

And  your  track  plainly  marked.     I  scorn  the  slang 

Of  "greedy  populace,"  and  "dirty  crowd," 

Nor  slander  thus  the  nature  which  I  bear. 

Men  in  the  aggregate  not  therefore  cease 

Still  to  be  men ;  and  where  untaught  they  fall, 

It  is  a  noble  duty  to  awake 

The  heart  of  truth,  that  slumbers  in  them  still. 

It  is  a  glorious  sight  to  rouse  the  soul, 

The  reasoning  heart  that  in  a  nation  sleeps ! 

And  wisdom  is  a  laggard  at  her  task, 

When  but  in  closet  speculations  toiling, 

She  doth  forget  to  share  her  thought  abroad 

And  make  mankind  her  heir. 


MARY  ELIZABETH  LEE. 

Maky  E.  Lee  was  born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  on 
the  23d  of  March,  1813.  She  belonged  to  an  old  family  of 
high  social  rank  and  intellectaal  culture.  Her  uncle,  Judge 
Thomas  Lee,  may  be  remembered  by  all  as  a  man  of  note  and 
influence. 

On  account  of  an  extremely  delicate  organization,  and  that 
fine  sensibility  which  belongs  to  the  poetical  temperament,  Miss 
Lee  was  carefully  shielded  from  all  rough  contact  with  the 
world,  not  even  being  allowed  to  enter  school  until  she  was  ten 
years  of  age.  She  was  then  placed  in  charge  of  Mr.  A.  Bolles, 
a  successful  teacher  of  young  ladies,  in  Charleston.  The  advan- 
tages of  the  school-room  seemed  to  unfold  to  her  a  new  world 
of  resource.  Books  became  her  passion.  She  made  rapid  pro- 
gress in  her  studies,  and  gathered  a  store  of  varied  knowledge 
for  future  use.  About  this  time,  she  began  to  develop  also 
great  aptitude  for  the  acquisition  of  languages  ;  but  her  health 
gave  way  under  the  pressure  of  close  application,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  pursue  a  less  systematic  and  rigorous  course  within 
the  quiet  precincts  of  her  own  home.  But  no  obstacles  could 
check  her  advance. 

At  the  age  of  twenty  she  became  a  contributor  to  "Hie 
Rose  Bud,"  a  periodical  edited  by  Mrs.  Gilman,  and  gradually 
growing  into  marked  favor  with  the  public.  Her  compositions 
in  prose  and  verse,  were  invoked  by  most  of  the  popular  jour- 
nals of  the  day. 

Among  these  contributions,  "The  Lone  Star,"  "  Correggio's 

485 


486  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Holy  Family,"  "  The  Hour  of  Death,"  "  The  Death  Bed  of 
Prince  Henry,"  and  the  "  Blind  Negro  Communicant,"  afford 
some  of  the  best  characteristics  of  her  style. 

About  this  time  her  first  volume,  entitled  "Social  Even- 
ings, or  Historical  Tales  for  Youth,"  was  published  by  the 
Massachusetts  School  Library  Association,  and  proved  to  be 
one  of  the  most  attractive  in  the  collection. 

Determined  to  maintain  herself  in  strict  independence,  she 
continued  to  write  for  northern  and  southern  periodicals,  until 
her  health  utterly  failed.  That  she  was  possessed  of  an  inde- 
fatigable and  truly  heroic  spirit,  may  be  learned  from  the  fact 
that  when  her  right  hand  became  helpless  from  paralysis,  she 
grasped  the  pen  firmly  with  the  left  hand,  acquired  a  new  style 
of  chirography,  and  abated  not  a  jot  of  her  labor. 

After  years  of  slow  physical  torture,  Miss  Lee  died  gently 
and  hopefully  in  the  midst  of  her  family,  at  Charleston,  Sep- 
tember 23,  1849.  In  1851,  a  volume  of  her  poems  was  pub- 
lished, with  an  interesting  and  tender  tribute  from  the  pen  of 
the  Kev.  Dr.  Gilman. 

THE  POETS. 

The  poets— the  poets — 

Those  giants  of  the  earth  : 
In  mighty  strength  they  tower  ahove 

The  men  of  common  birth  ; 
A  noble  race — they  mingle  not 

Among  the  motley  throng, 
But  move  with  slow  and  measured  steps 

To  music-notes  along. 

The  poets — the  poets — 
"What  conquests  they  can  boast ! 
Without  one  drop  of  life-blood  spilt, 
They  rule  a  world's  wide  host ; 


MARY    ELIZABETH    LEE.  487 

Their  stainless  banner  floats  unharmed 

From  age  to  lengthened  age ; 
And  history  records  their  deeds 

Upon  her  proudest  page. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

How  endless  is  their  fame ! 
Death,  like  a  thin  mist,  comes,  yet  leaves 

No  shadow  on  each  name ; 
But  as  yon  starry  gems  that  gleam 

In  evening's  crystal  sky, 
So  have  they  won,  in  memory's  depths, 

An  immortality. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

Who  doth  not  linger  o'er 
The  glorious  volumes  that  contain 

Their  bright  and  spotless  lore? 
They  charm  as  in  the  saddest  hours 

Our  richest  joys  they  feed  ; 
And  love  for  them  has  grown  to  be 

A  universal  creed. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

Those  kingly  minstrels  dead, 
"Well  may  we  twine  a  votive  wreath 

Around  each  honored  head  : 
No  tribute  is  too  high  to  give 

Those  crowned  ones  among  men. 
The  poets !  the  true  poets ! 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  them  ! 


488  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


AN  EASTERN  LOVE  SONG. 

Awake,  my  silver  lute ; 

String  all  thy  plaintive  wires, 
And  as  the  fountain  gushes  free, 
So  let  thy  memory  chant  for  me 

The  theme  that  never  tires. 

Awake,  my  liquid  voice ; 

Like  yonder  timorous  bird, 
Why  dost  thou  sing  in  trembling  fear 
As  if  by  some  obtrusive  ear 

Thy  secret  should  be  heard  ? 

Awake,  my  heart — yet  no  ! 

As  Cedron's  golden  rill, 
Whose  changeless  echo  singeth  o'er 
Notes  it  had  heard  long  years  before, 

So  thou  art  never  still. 

My  voice  !  my  lute !  my  heart ! 

Spring  joyously  above 
The  feeble  notes  of  lower  earth 
And  let  thy  richest  tones  have  birth 

Beneath  the  touch  of  love. 


THE  LAST  PLACE  OF  SLEEP. 

Lay  me  not  in  greenwood  lone 
Where  the  sad  wind  maketh  moan, 
Where  the  sun  hath  never  shone, 

Save  as  if  in  sadness ; 
Nor,  I  pray  thee,  let  me  be 
Buried  'neath  the  chill,  cold  sea 
Where  the  waves,  tumultuous,  free. 

Chafe  themselves  to  madness. 


1 


MARY    ELIZABETH    LEE.  489 

But  in  yon  inclosure  small, 

Near  the  churchyard's  mossy  wall, 

"Where  the  dew  and  sunlight  fall, 

I  would  have  my  dwelling ; 
Sure  there  are  some  friends,  I  wot, 
"Who  would  make  that  narrow  spot 
Lovely  as  a  garden  plot 

With  rich  perfumes  swelling. 


GEORGIAN  A    A.    HTJLSE    McLEOD. 

Mrs.  McLeod,  daughter  of  Dr.  Isaac  Hulse,  of  the  United 
States  Navy,  and  grand-daughter  of  Rev.  Dr.  George  Roberts, 
of  Baltimore,  was  born  near  Pensaeola,  Florida,  at  the  naval 
hospital,  of  winch  her  father  was  then  surgeon.  While  yet  a 
mere  infant,  she  was  left  an  orphan.  She  very  early  evinced  a 
taste  for  literature,  and  contributed  to  several  periodicals  under 
various  norns  de  phime. 

Soon  after  completing  her  school  education,  she  produced 
"  Sunbeams  and  Shadows,"  which  was  brought  out  by  Messrs. 
Appleton  of  New  York. 

In  1853,  she  married  the  Rev.  Dr.  Alexander  W.  McLeod, 
of  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia,  where  for  a  time  they  resided.  She 
then  gave  to  the  world  her  second  volume,  "  Ivy-Leaves  from 
the  Old  Homestead."  This  was  soon  followed  by  "  Thine  and 
Mine,"  which  was  published  by  Messrs.  Derby  &  Jackson. 

Mrs.  McLeod's  last  book  evidences  steady  growth  and  cul- 
ture, and  lias  been  received  with  much  favor.  All  the  works 
of  this  writer  are  marked  by  fine  sensibility  and  high-toned 
morality.  Her  second  book,  "  Ivy-Leaves,"  is  garnished  with 
poems,  some  of  which  indicate  a  true  poetic  element. 

It  is  said  that  Mrs.  McLeod  is  widely  known  and  loved  for 
her  pure  womanliness  and  exalted  piety,  as  well  as  her  graces 
<>f  mind  and  person.  She  is  presiding,  at  present,  over  "  The 
Southern  Literary  Listitute,"  of  Baltimore,  Md.  This  institu- 
tion is  designed  for  young  ladies  exclusively,  and  is  rapidly  ris- 
ing in  popular  favor. 

490 


GEORGIANA    A.   UULSE    MeLEOD.  491 


LOU  LYNDSAY'S  BRIDAL. 

Very  lovely  the  young  girl  seemed  to  the  loving  eyes  that  looked  upon 
her  that  Christmas  eve.  The  solemn  words,  and  the  response  given  in 
clear,  manly  tones,  seemed  to  have  a  subduing  efi'ect.  The  varying  color 
upon  her  cheek  satisfied  even  Nurse  Grantham's  ideas  of  propriety. 

She  was  strangely  quiet  for  a  time,  but  back  to  her  eye  came  the 
dancing,  mirthful  light  of  yore,  and .  the  smile  and  playful  jest  were  her 
very  own.  There  was  snow  lying  deep  upon  the  ground  without,  but  the 
storm  had  ceased,  and  down  upon  the  glittering  covering  the  earth  now 
wore,  myriads  of  stars  gleamed  brightly,  and  soon  the  moon,  in  its  clear, 
silvery  light,  shed  abroad  upon  the  earth  a  blessing. 

As  upon  Judea's  plains,  in  years  long  ago,  it  shone  where  the  watch- 
ing shepherds  dwelt,  heralding  the  light  that  was  to  dawn  upon  a  waking 
world — the  light  for  which  God's  Israel  looked  and  prayed — a  light  not 
to  them  only,  but  to  shine  into  the  hearts  of  the  great  family  of  man, 
Jew  and  Gentile,  Greek  and  Barbarian.  Light  above,  below,  without, 
within,  and  joy  that  was  to  be  not  for  a  season  only,  dwelt  in  many  a 
home  and  heart  upon  Lou  Lyndsay's  bridal  eve. 


SUNBEAMS  AND  SHADOWS. 

The  fire  hath  gone  out  on  my  lonely  hearth ;  its  last  embers  faded  as  I 
watched  !  Without,  the  darkness  reigns,  and  the  snow  lieth  heavily  on  the 
earth,  even  as  those  sorrows  which  have  fallen  on  my  heart,  and  blanched 
my  hair  to  whiteness. 

The  loved  of  my  youth  are  gone  to  the  far-off  land,  or  in  homes  brighter 
than  my  own,  they  know  not  of  my  desolation.  Their  voices  come  around 
me,  echoing  from  the  past  in  the  deep  still  night,  and  I  turn  to  meet  them, 
but  the  shadows  mock  me ! 

Here  are  the  bright  tresses  which  I  severed,  and  from  their  jewelled 
cases  look  forth  the  joyous  semblances  of  those  missing  from  my  side!  My 
fairy  darlings !  ye  who  made  sunlight  in  earth's  darkest  paths,  why  have  ye 
fled  from  my  idolizing  love  ?  My  noble  May !  my  little  Rose !  where  are 
your  young  heads  pillowed?  Alas!  curtained  by  the  night,  cradled  in  the 
storm,  beneath  the  cold  damp  earth  !  and  I,  who  yearn  to  shelter  you,  am  left 
alone !     No,  not  alone — God  is  still  with  me  ;  and  he  to  whom  in  girlhood  I 


492  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

gave  my  trusting  faith,  is  left  me  still !  May  our  Father  forgive  the  weak- 
ness of  a  mother's  stricken  heart.  May  He  help  me  to  remember  ever,  that 
my  treasures  are  safely  housed,  where  no  chill  wind  can  reach  them — where 
sorrow  shall  never  find  them,  and  where,  in  the  day  of  his  coming,  the 
glorified  spirits  shall  he  joined  again  unto  the  earthly  part  now  slumbering  ! 
I  will  hush  my  sighs,  and  oh,  what  need  of  tears  has  one  who  has  added 
two  bright  angels  to  the  choir  that  swell  the  anthems  of  triumph  near  the 
throne!  I  will  lay  me  down  to  rest,  trusting  to  Him,  who  doeth  what  is 
right,  and  who,  ere  long,  will  give  us  one  bright  home  together. 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

Gently  in  my  arms  they  laid  him, 

Like  a  lily  pure,  and  fair, 
Violets  'neath  the  dark  fringed  eyelids, 

Silken  rings  of  soft,  brown  hair ; 
Beautiful  for  artist's  limning, 

Fragile  as  a  new-born  flower, 
Oh !  how  earnest  was  my  prayer, 

For  my  darling  in  that  hour. 

All  earth's  richest,  and  its  rarest, 

Buds  of  beauty,  gems  of  light, 
Treasures  won  by  art,  or  science, 

Were  as  nothing  in  my  sight; 
Not  for  all  would  I  have  bartered, 

This  most  beauteous,  precious  gift; 
Scarcely  e'en  to  bless  the  giver, 

Could  my  eyes  to  heaven  I  lift. 

All  that  earthly  love  could  lavish 

On  its  dearest,  and  its  best, 
Did  my  heart  already  garner, 

For  the  baby  on  my  breast ; 
In  an  hour,  I  lived  a  life-time, 

Oh,  how  bright  a  waking  dream! 
Passed  from  infancy  to  manhood, 

In  all  hearts  he  reigned  supreme. 


GEORGIANA    A.    HULSE    McLEOD.  493 

Woe  is  me !     How  soon  the  darkness, 

Hid  the  picture  from  my  sight ; 
Little  thought  I  that  the  morrow, 

Would  for  me  he  as  the  night ; 
Thankless  heart,  forgetting  blindly, 

That  no  idols  we  must  make — 
Brief  my  dreaming,  crushing  sorrow, 

Taught  me  from  such  dream  to  wake. 

Paler  drooped  my  pure  white  lily, 

Far  too  pure  for  earthly  stain, 
In  the  land  of  living  flowers, 

In  shall  be  raised  up  again ; 
Stricken  heart,  and  lonely  mother, 

Look  I  to  a  far  off  shore, 
I  had  prayed — "Bless  him  my  father," 

So  he  blessed  him  evermore ! 


PASSERS  BY. 

How  many  changing  faces 

My  wand'riug  glances  meet, 
As  sitting  at  the  window 

I  look  out  upon  the  street. 
The  rain  is  falling  coldly 

As  sorrow  on  the  heart, 
And  all  in  shadow  lieth 

The  busy,  crowded  mart. 
But  eager,  hurried  footfalls 

Are  on  the  pave  below, 
And  care-worn,  thoughtful  faces 

Pass  ever  to  and  fro. 
A  loitering  happy  school-boy, 

Now  from  my  sight  is  gone, 
But  I  can  hear  him  whistling 

Of  "  The  old  folks  at  home." 
Then,  I  begin  to  wonder 

If  liis  home  is  like  to  ours; 


494  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

If  so,  he  has  a  happy  one, 

A  pathway  full  of  flowers. 
Now  shouting  joyously  they  come, 

A  merry  thoughtless  band 
Just  free  (for  it  is  mid-day), 

From  the  school-house  near  at  hand. 
It  does  me  good  to  see  them 

Untouched  as  yet  by  grief, 
And  so  thinks  one  who  seemeth 

With  me  a  watch  to  keep. 


The  tramp  of  steeds  comes  slowly, 

I  hear  it  nearer  now, 
Some  heart  I  ween  is  stricken, 

Some  idol  is  laid  low ! 
A  little  child  they're  bearing 

Unto  its  dreamless  rest, 
Why  weep  they  wildly,  more  than  we  ? 

The  guileless  spirit's  blest. 
Slowly,  more  slowly,  pass  ye, 

And  lay  it  gently  down, 
'Tis  but  the  earthly  part  ye  bear, 

The  glorious  soul  is  flown. 
Look  up  !  as  though  a  message 

Is  sent  you  from  on  high, 
The  snn  that  cloud  is  parting, 

The  blue  is  in  the  sky ! 


Gone,  the  mourners,  and  the  gleam-light, 

That  for  a  moment  given, 
Seemed  to  win  the  sorrowing  spirits, 

To  turn  their  eyes  to  heaven. 
Friendly,  smiling,  well-known  faces, 

With  answering  smile  I  greet, 
As  many  a  lesson  learning, 

I  look  out  on  the  street. 


MARY    J.    WINDLE. 

Mart  Jane  Windle,  a  native  of  Wilmington,  Delaware,  was 
bom  on  the  16th  February,  1825.  Deprived  soon  after  her 
birth  of  a  father's  care,  she,  together  with  a  large  family  circle, 
became  entirely  dependent  upon  the  exertions  of  her  mother ; 
but,  notwithstanding  the  disadvantages  of  her  position,  Miss 
Windle  applied  herself  assiduously  to  her  studies,  and  was  soon 
familiar  with  the  most  important  elements  of  modern  literature. 

She  then  became  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  public 
press.  Her  compositions  in  prose  and  poetry  bore  the  stamp  of 
decided  talent,  and  soon  won  for  her  a  distinctive  rank  among 
the  periodical  writers  of  the  day.  Her  graceful  and  delicate 
sketches,  especially,  became  so  widely  popular,  that  she  was  at 
last  prevailed  upon  to  collect  the  best  of  them  and  reprint  them 
in  book  form.  This  volume  appeared  in  1850,  and  reached  a 
large  circulation. 

Miss  Windle's  most  marked  characteristics,  as  a  writer,  are 
affluence  of  expression,  delineative  power,  and  exceeding  purity 
of  taste.  Though  a  sufferer  from  ill  health,  she  is  ever  faithful 
to  literary  pursuits,  and  mindful  as  well  of  all  social  and 
domestic  claims. 


ALICE  HEATH'S  INTERVIEW  WITH  CROMWELL. 

The  apartment  was  an  ante-room  attached  to  the  spacious  bed-chamber 

formerly  belonging  to  the  king.     It  was  luxuriously  furnished  with  all  the 


496  WOMEN    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

appliances  of  ease  and  elegance  suitable  to  a  royal  withdrawing-room. 
Tables  and  chairs  of  rose- wood,  richly  inlaid  with  ivory  and  mother-of-pearl, 
were  arranged  in  order  around  the  room  ;  magnificent  vases  of  porcelain 
decorated  the  mantel-piece ;  statues  from  the  chisel  of  Michael  Angelo  stood 
in  the  niches ;  and  pictures  in  gorgeous  frames  hung  upon  the  walls. 

There,  near  a  table,  on  which  burned  a  single  shaded  lamp,  standing 
upright  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  from  which  he  had  just  been  interrupted, 
stood  the  occupant.  For  an  instant,  as  she  lingered  near  the  door,  and  looked 
upon  the  figure  which  bore  so  strongly  the  impress  of  power,  and  felt  that  on 
his  word  hung  the  fate  of  him  for  whom  she  had  come  to  plead,  she  already 
feared  for  the  success  of  her  mission,  and  would  fain  almost  have  retracted 
her  visit.  But  remembering  the  accents  of  prayer  she  had  heard  while  wait- 
ing without,  she  considered  that  her  purposed  appeal  was  to  the  conscience 
of  one  whom  she  had  just  surprised,  as  it  were,  in  the  presence  of  his  Maker, 
and  took  courage  to  advance. 

"May  I  pray  thee  to  approach  and  be  seated,  madam,  and  unfold  the 
object  of  this  visit,"  said  Cromwell,  in  a  thick,  rapid  utterance,  the  result 
of  his  surprise,  as  he  waved  his  visitor  to  a  chair.  "  At  that  distance, 
and  by  this  light,  I  can  hardly  distinguish  the  features  of  the  lady  who 
so  inopportunely  and  unceremoniously  honors  me  with  her  presence." 

Immediately  advancing,  she  threw  back  her  hood,  and  offering  him 
her  hand,  said:  "It  is  Alice  Heath,  the  daughter  of  your  friend,  General 
Lisle." 

Cromwell's  rugged  countenance  expressed  the  utmost  surprise,  as  lie 
awkwardly  strove  to  assume  a  courtesy  foreign  to  his  manner,  and 
exchange  the  first  ungracious  greeting  for  a  more  cordial  welcome. 

With  exceeding  tact,  Alice  hastened  to  relieve  his  embarrassment,  by 
falling  back  into  the  chair  he  had  offered,  and  at  once  declaring  the  pur- 
pose of  her  visit. 

"General  Cromwell,"  she  began,  in  a  voice  sweetly  distinct,  "you 
stand  high  in  the  eyes  of  man,  not  only  as  a  patriot,  but  a  strict  and 
conscientious  servant  of  the  Most  Iligh.  As  such,  you  have  been  the 
main  instrument  in  procuring  the  doom  now  hanging  in  awful  expectation 
over  the  head  of  him  who  once  tenanted,  in  the  same  splendor  that  now  sur- 
rounds yourself,  the  building  in  which  I  find  you.  Methinks  his  vacation  of 
these  princely  premises,  and  your  succession  thereunto,  renders  you  scarcely 
capable  of  being  a  disinterested  advocate  for  his  death ;  since,  by  it,  you 
become  successor  to  all  the  pomp  and  power  formerly  his.     Have  you  asked 


MARY    J.    WINDLE.  497 

yourself  the  question  whether  or  no  motives  of  self-aggrandizement  have 
tainted  this  deed  of  patriotism,  or  sullied  this  act  of  religion  ?" 

"  Your  language  is  unwarrantable  and  unbecoming,  madam,"  said  Crom- 
well, deadly  pale  and  trembling  violently;   "it  is  written  " 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Alice,  interupting  him ;  "  you  think  it  uncourteous  and 
even  impertinent  that  I  should  intrude  upon  you  with  a  question  such  as  I 
but  now  addressed  to  you.  But,  General  Cromwell,  a  human  life  is  at  stake, 
and  that  the  life  of  no  ordinary  being,  but  the  descendant  of  a  race  of  kings. 
Nay,  hear  me  out,  sir,  I  beg  of  you.  Charles  Stuart  is  about  to  die  an  awful 
and  a  violent  death ;  your  voice  has  condemned  him — your  voice  can  yet 
save  him.  If  it  be  your  country's  weal  that  you  desire,  that  object  has  been 
already  sufficiently  answered  by  the  example  of  his  trial ;  or,  if  it  is  to 
further  the  cause  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  that  you  place  yourself  at  the  head 
of  Britain  in  his  place,  be  assured  that  he  who  would  assert  his  power  by 
surrounding  himself  with  a  pomp  like  this,  is  no  delegate  of  One  who  com- 
missioned Moses  to  lead  his  people  through  the  wilderness,  a  sharer  in  the 
common  lot,  and  a  houseless  wanderer  like  themselves.  Bethink  you,  there- 
fore, what  must  be  the  doom  of  him,  who,  for  the  sake  of  ambition  and 
pride— in  order  that  he  might,  for  the  brief  space  of  his  life,  enjoy  luxury 
and  power — under  the  borrowed  name,  too,  of  that  God  who  views  the 
act  with  horror  and  detestation,  stains  his  hands  with  parricidal  blood. 
Yes,  General  Cromwell,  for  thy  own  soul's,  if  not  for  mercy's  sake,  I  entreat 
thee,  in  whom  alone  lies  the  power,  to  cause  Charles  Stuart's  sentence  to  be 
remitted." 

After  a  few  moments'  hesitation,  during  which  Alice  looked  in  his  face 
with  the  deepest  anxiety,  and  awaited  his  answer,  he  said  : 

"  Go  to,  young  woman,  who  presumest  to  interfere  between  a  judge 
raised  up  for  the  redemption  of  England,  and  a  traitor  king,  whom  the  Lord 
hath  permitted  to  he  condemned  to  the  axe.  As  my  soul  liveth,  and  as  He 
liveth,  who  will  one  day  make  me  a  ruler  in  Israel,  thou  hast  more  than  the 
vanity  of  thy  sex,  in  hoping  by  thy  foolish  speech  to  move  me  to  lift  up  my 
hand  against  the  decree  of  the  Almighty.     Truly" 

"  Nay,  General  Cromwell,"  said  Alice,  interrupting  him,  as  soon  as  she 
perceived  that  he  was  about  to  enter  into  one  of  his  lengthy  and  pointless 
harangues,  "nay,  you  evade  the  matter  both  with  me  and  with  the  con- 
science whose  workings  I  have  for  the  last  few  moments  beheld  in  the  dis- 
order of  your  frame.     Have  its  pleadings— for  to  them  I  look,  and  not  to 

32 


498  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

any  eloquence  of  mine  own — been  of  no  avail.  Will  it  please  you  to  do  aught 
for  the  king  ?" 

"Young  lady."  replied  Cromwell,  bursting  into  tears,  which  he  was  occa- 
sionally wont  to  do,  "  a  man  like  me,  who  is  called  to  perform  great  acts  in 
Israel,  had  need  to  be  immovable  to  feelings  of  human  charities.  Think  you 
not  it  is  painful  to  our  mortal  sympathies  to  be  called  upon  to  execute  the 
righteous  judgments  of  Heaven,  while  we  are  yet  in  the  body  !  And  think 
you,  when  we  must  remove  some  prime  tyrant,  that  the  instruments  of  his 
removal  can  at  all  times  view  their  part  in  his  punishment  with  unshaken 
nerves  ?  Must  they  not  even  at  times  doubt  the  inspiration  under  which 
they  have  felt  and  acted  ?  Must  they  not  occasionally  question  the  origin  of 
that  strong  impulse  which  appears  the  inward  answer  to  prayer  for  direction 
under  heavenly  difficulties,  and,  in  their  disturbed  apprehensions,  confuse 
even  the  responses  of  truth  with  the  strong  delusions  of  Satan?  "Would 
that  the  Lord  would  harden  my  heart,  even  as  he  hardened  that  of" 

"Stop,  sir,"  said  Alice,  interrupting  him  ere  his  softened  mood  should 
have  passed  away,  "utter  not  such  a  sacrilegious  wish.  "Why  are  the  kindly 
sympathies  which  you  describe  implanted  in  your  bosom,  unless  it  be  to  pre- 
vent your  ambition  from  stifling  yonr  humanity  ?  The  rather  encourage 
them,  and  save  Charles  Stuart.  Let  your  mind  dwell  upon  the  many  traits 
of  nobleness  in  his  character,  which  might  be  mentioned  with  enthusiasm, 
aye,  and  with  sorrow,  too,  that  they  should  be  thus  sacrificed." 

"  The  Most  High,  young  woman,  will  have  no  fainters  in  spirit  in  his  ser- 
vice ;  none  who  turn  back  from  Mount  Gilead  for  fear  of  the  Amalekites. 
To  be  brief,  it  waxes  late;  to  discuss  this  topic  longer  is  but  to  distress  us 
both.     Charles  Stuart  must  die  :  the  mouth  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  bowed  with  a  determined  but  respectful  reverence,  and 
when  he  lifted  up  his  head,  the  expression  of  his  features  told  Alice  that  the 
doom  of  the  king  was  sealed. 

"  I  see  there  is  no  hope,"  said  she,  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  Cromwell  spoke 
these  words  in  a  tone  of  decision  which  left  her  no  further  encouragement, 
and  with  a  brevity  so  unusual  to  him.  Nor  was  his  hint  to  close  the  inter- 
view lost  upon  her.  "No  hope!"  she  repeated,  drawing  back.  "  I  leave 
you  then,  inexorable  man  of  iron,  and  may  yon  not  thus  plead  in  vain  for 
mercy  at  the  bar  of  God!" 

So  saying,  she  turned  and  rejoined  her  husband,  who  remained  in  wait- 
ing for  her ;  they  returned  together  to  Lisle's  house. 


WRITERS    NOT    YET    AUTHORS. 

The  brief  sketches  that  follow  are  of  writers  who  have  given 
to  the  world  no  collection  of  their  works,  hut  whose  fugitive 
pieces  have  been  variously  noticed. 


JANE   T.   WORTHLNGTON, 

Wife  of  Dr.  F.  A.  Worthington,  of  Ohio,  and  daughter  of 
Colonel  Lomax,  of  the  United  States  Army,  was  a  native 
of  Virginia,  and  descended  from  a  distinguished  family  of 
that  State.  By  the  frequent  changes  of  residence  involved 
in  military  service,  she  was  afforded  large  opportunities 
for  observation  and  social  and  intellectual  culture,  but  she 
always  retained  a  strong  attachment  for  her  native  State,  and 
nearly  all  her  writings,  in  prose  and  verse,  appeared  in  the 
"  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  of  Richmond.  Her  compo- 
sitions— her  essays  especially — are  marked  by  good  sense  and 
great  womanly  delicacy.  Her  poems  have  a  graceful  simplicity, 
in  keeping  with  her  character.  She  died  in  1847,  lamented  by 
a  large  circle  of  appreciative  friends. 


THE  POOR. 

Have  pity  on  them,  for  their  life 

[a  full  of  grief  and  care : 
You  do  not  know  one  half  the  woes 

The  very  poor  must  bear  ; 


500  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

You  do  not  see  the  silent  tears 

By  many  a  mother  shed, 
As  childhood  offers  up  the  prayer, 

"  Give  us  our  daily  bread." 

And  sick  at  heart  she  turns  away 

From  the  small  face  wan  with  pain, 
And  feels  that  prayer  has  long  been  said 

By  those  young  lips  in  vain. 
You  do  not  see  the  pallid  cheeks 

Of  those  whose  years  are  few, 
But  who  are  old  in  all  the  griefs 

The  poor  must  struggle  through. 

Their  lot  is  made  of  misery 

More  hopeless  day  by  day, 
And  through  the  long  cold  winter  nights 

Nor  light  nor  fire  have  they  ; 
But  little  children,  shivering,  crouch 

Around  the  cheerless  hearth, 
Their  young  hearts  weary  with  the  want 

That  drags  the  soul  to  earth. 

Oh,  when  with  faint  and  languid  voice 

The  poor  implore  your  aid, 
It  matters  not  how,  step  by  step, 

Their  misery  was  made  ; 
It  matters  not  if  shame  had  left 

Its  shadow  on  their  brow — 
It  is  enough  for  you  to  see 

That  they  are  suffering  now. 

Deal  gently  with  these  wretched  ones, 
Whatever  wrought  their  woe, 

For  the  poor  have  much  to  tempt  and  test 
That  you  can  never  know : 


R.    JACOBUS.  501 

Then  judge  them  not,  for  hard  indeed 

Is  their  dark  lot  of  care ; 
Let  Heaven  condemn,  but  human  hearts 

With  human  faults  should  bear. 

And  when  within  your  happy  homes 

You  hear  the  voice  of  mirth, 
When  smiling  faces  brighten  round 

The  warm  and  cheerful  hearth, 
Let  charitable  thoughts  go  forth 

For  the  sad  and  homeless  one, 
And  your  own  lot  more  blest  will  be, 

For  every  kind  deed  done. 
Now  is  the  time  the  very  poor 

Must  often  meet  your  gaze — 
Have  mercy  on  them  in  these  cold 

And  melancholy  days. 


R.   JACOBUS. 

Mrs.  Jacobus'  contributions,  of  prose  and  verse,  to  the 
"  Home  Journal,"  "  Fitzgerald's  City  Item,"  and  other  papers, 
have  gained  her  many  admirers  and  an  honorable  rank  in  the 
literary  world.  Her  stories  in  the  "  Home  Journal,"  with  which 
the  public  is  most  familiar,  evince  mental  poise  and  vigor,  and 
send  home  effective  moral  truths.  She  was  born  on  the  22d  of 
February.  1832,  in  Cambridge,  South  Carolina.  Her  mother  is 
a  native  of  Bordeaux,  France.  Mrs.  Jacobus'  earliest  recollec- 
tions are  of  a  luxurious  and  happy  home,  which  slipped  from 
the  possession  of  her  parents  in  the  midst  of  many  reverses.  In 
this  state  of  things,  the  family  removed,  in  1844,  to  Florida. 

"  The  wild  life  that  f<  >llowed  our  arrival  in  Florida,"  she  says, 


502  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  was  the  happiest  period  of  my  life  ;  twenty  miles  distant,  on 
either  side,  from  any  human  habitation,  we  roamed  the  woods, 
waded  the  depths  of  the  beautiful  sound,  with  no  human  eye 
to  prescribe  our  freedom,  no  social  conventionalisms  to  set  bounds 
to  our  wild  enjoyments.  Yet  even  in  this  grand  solitude  was  the 
worship  (Jewish)  of  our  forefathers  observed  the  same  as  when 
standing;  beneath  the  magnificent  dome  of  Israel's  God.  As 
each  Friday  twilight  signalled  the  approach  of  our  holy  Sabbath, 
jovial  voices  were  hushed,  labor  was  suspended,  and,  gathering- 
round  the  family  altar,  with  bowed  heads  and  clasped  hands,  we 
listened  to  fervent  prayers  made  doubly  solemn  by  our  surround- 
ings." 

After  two  years  passed  in  this  way,  the  family  removed  to 
New  Orleans,  where  our  writer  entered  school,  and,  pursuing 
her  edttcation  under  the  careful  and  generous  supervision  of  her 
brother,  Judge  Heydenfeldt,  graduated  after  five  years  at  Mont- 
gomery, Ala.  She  then  married  Mr.  Jacobus,  and  became  so 
devoted  to  a  domestic  circle  of  her  own,  as  to  shut  out  any  but 
the  most  occasional  literary  claim. 


THE  SECOND  WIFE. 

He  could  not  seem  more  life-like  were  he  standing  before  me — the  same 
hard  look  on  his  face ;  the  same  icy  light  in  his  cold,  grey  eye ;  the  broad 
brow  incasing  more  thought  than  lives  in  the  minds  of  fifty  other  clever  men. 
There  is  a  peculiar  charm  about  Hamilton,  either  in  his  painted  semblance  or 
in  himself,  standing  or  walking,  with  the  cold  look  freezing  over  his  face,  or 
the  smile  which  only  Hamilton  can  smile,  beaming  and  breaking  like  a 
beautiful  sun-tinted  cloud  over  a  misty,  winter  sky.  Then  I  turn  to  Zalia, 
as  well  in  thought  as  in  sight.  Zalia,  with  her  gentle  eyes — every  way  gentle 
save  one  quiet  shadow — saying  more  expressively  than  her  lips  could,  "  I 
will  love,  I  will  struggle,  I  will  forbear,  but  I  must  be  beloved."  now  that 
soft  face  brightened  under  Hamilton's  smile — the  smile  that  won  her,  and  the 
hard  look  that .     Ah  !  well,  it  is  all  past  now.     The  wind  tossed  the 


R.    JACOBUS.  503 

flowers,  the  untimely  frost  spangled  the  leaves  with  a  false  beauty,  and  time 
swept  everything  away  but  the  gloomy  waste ;  and  that  remains  as  cold,  and 
stark,  and  dreary,  as  though  no  bright  flowers  had  ever  burst  through  the 
grassy  carpet,  or  no  green  leaves  or  young  buds  had  ever  sprung  or  bloomed 
there,  under  the  bright  sunlight  of  heaven. 

Hamilton  was  what  the  world  called  a  handsome  man,  though  his  real 
attraction  verged  more  on  a  certain  kind  of  fascination  than  beauty.  He 
would  invariably  attract  and  repulse  in  turn  :  the  one  inspiring  a  kind  of 
gratitude,  and  the  other  an  unaccountable  feeling  of  reverential  awe.  Col- 
lege boys  walked  a  block  out  of  their  way  to  miss  him ;  and  young  sprouts, 
with  red  vests,  diamond  collar-pins,  and  misapplied  Latin  quotations  always 
on  hand,  eschewed  his  presence  as  an  extended  toad-fish  would  the  broadside 
of  a  voracious  shark. 

Hamilton  did  not  love  his  first  wife,  though  she  was  good  and  beautiful ; 
loving  him  with  an  intensity  that  caused  her  to  thank  God  when  the  seal  of 
death  was  upon  her — for  she  knew  he  did  not  love  her.  He  experienced  a 
sort  of  pleasure  in  letting  her  know  it ;  though,  had  he  known  the  pain  that 
knowledge  gave  her,  he  would  have  been  a  little  less  cold,  and  much  more 
kind.  But  he  did  not,  and  day  after  day  went  on  his  same  cold,  loveless 
track,  until  the  doctor's  buggy  rolled  noiselessly  away,  the  green  blinds 
closed,  silent  figures  passed  in  and  out,  and  the  wax  candles  at  the  head  and 
feet  burned  dimmer  and  dimmer  on  that  quiet,  upturned  face,  looking 
heavenward  with  a  faint,  shadowy  smile,  as  though  it  were  asking  for  God's 
love  now,  nor  wished  for  Hamilton's. 

Where  was  he  then  ?  Standing  beside  that  quiet  form,  with  a  harder  and 
a  colder  look  on  his  stern  face  than  ever  it  wore  before.  He  stood  there,  not 
through  love,  but  as  a  penalty,  feeling  strangely  fascinated  to  undergo  the 
punishment  it  entailed ;  and  over  and  over  again  a  voice  in  his  heart  whis- 
pered, "Yon  have  done  it,"  while  the  soft  smile,  which  never  varied,  always 
answered,  "  You  are  forgiven.*'  Hamilton  started  as  the  snowy  covering 
moved,  and  little  Charley  crept  from  beneath  the  shroud,  and  sat  on  a  chair 
by  bis  mother's  side,  watching  her  with  a  look  of  pain  seldom  seen  on  a 
child's  face. 

"You  are  not  sorry,"  said  he,  looking  up  with  his  father's  same  hard,  icy- 
look  on  his  little  face.  "  You  would  rather  read,  than  talk  to  her  ;  and  now 
you  may  read  all  day  and  night — she  will  never  talk  to  you  again,  and  I  am 
glad  of  it," 

"Leave  the  room,  sir,"  said  Hamilton,  fiercely. 


504  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

A  figure  rose  from  the  shadow  of  the  heavy  curtains,  and,  approaching 
the  child,  took  him  gently  by  the  hand.  "No,  no,  Zalia,  please  ;  I  want  to 
stay.     I  love  mamma  better  than  he  does." 

Hamilton  sprang  toward  the  child,  but  Zalia  stood  between  them,  and 
the  next  moment  the  door  closed,  leaving  the  husband  alone  with  his  dead 
wife,  his  passionless  heart,  and  cold  eyes,  and  the  voice  that  never  ceased 
whispering,  "You  have  done  it." 


THE  WIND. 

Hark !  as  it  sweeps  the  darkened  streets, 

Lashing  the  sands 
That  whirling  rise,  athwart  the  skies, 

In  hazy  strands. 
Hark !  how  it  shrieks,  in  its  maddened  freaks, 

List  to  the  leaves, 
As  it  dashes  off,  with  a  howl  and  a  scoff, 

Thro'  the  tangling  trees. 

List !  as  its  knell  wakens  the  bell 

With  a  scream  and  a  start. 
As  the  loud  peals  tell  where  the  fiery  hell 

Is  playing  its  part. 
Wildly  it  stamps  the  burning  planks 

In  a  wreath  of  flame, 
While  its  horrible  laugh  splinters  in  half 

The  tottering  frame. 

Madly  it  games  with  the  lurid  flames 

In  terrible  love ; 
Screaming !  it  plays  with  the  reddening  blaze 

Flaming  above. 
With  fiendish  hands  it  scatters  the  brands 

In  demonish  glee, 
Then  scoffingly  flings  its  sightless  wings 

Over  the  sea. 


R.    JACOBUS.  505 

Mark  !   how  the  clouds,  in  purple  shrouds, 

Blacken  the  rays, 
As  its  terrible  touch,  with  a  yell  and  a  rush, 

Wakens  the  waves. 
They  shiver  and  part,  with  a  moan  and  a  start, 

Stung  by  its  breath, 
Then  roaring  they  dash,  with  a  terrible  crash, 

"Whirling  in  death. 

On  thro'  the  night,  without  beacon  or  light. 

They  struggle  and  mourn, 
And  writhingly  kiss,  with  a  maddened  hiss, 

The  surging  foam. 
With  a  sudden  start,  exulting  they  part, 

On  the  breast  of  the  blast, 
'Gainst  the  blackened  sky,  they  shrieking  espy, 

A  tottering  mast. 


See,  see,  as  she  rides,  her  quivering  sides 

Fearfully  cave ; 
Now,  bravely  she  floats,  o'er  the  gaping  throats 

Of  the  lashing  wave. 
Now  poised  on  high.     Hark!  to  the  cry, 

As  the  waves  unlock, 
Then  madly  lash,  with  a  terrible  crash, 

And  a  fearful  shock. 


The  ship  !  see  !  fast,  the  reeling  mast 

Splinters  in  two, 
As  the  mad  wind's  breath  hurries  to  death 

The  fated  crew. 
Despairing  and  wild,  the  mother  and  child 

Fly  from  each  other  : 
Husband  and  wife  part  in  the  strife, 

Sister  and  brother. 


506  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  wild  winds  soar,  the  mad  waves  roar 

As  they  whirlingly  leap. 
The  ship  !  the  storm  !     Oh,  God  !  she  is  gone 

Down  in  the  deep. 
The  shrill  death  cries,  in  the  hlackened  skies 

No  answer  find. 
The  screams  of  death  sink  in  the  breath 

Of  the  maddened  wind. 


ESSIE  B.  CHEESBOROUGH 

Is  a  native  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  For  several 
years  she  has  been  a  constant  contributor  of  prose  and  verse  to 
the  leading  periodicals  of  the  South.  Her  compositions  have 
mostly  appeared  in  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger," 
"  Soitthem  Literary  Gazette,"  "  Russell's  Magazine,"  "  Southern 
Episcopalian,"  "  The  Southern,"  and  the  "  Charleston  Courier." 
She  has  also  contributed  to  "  Godey's  Lady's  Book." 


A  THOUGHT  IN  A  DREAM. 

As  deep  in  Lethean  calm  I  slept, 
Whilst  pale  stars  softly,  gently  crept 

Along  the  silent  heaven, 
And  angel  wings  had  ceased  their  flight, 
Afraid  to  stir  the  hush  of  night — 

A  dream  to  me  was  given. 

It  may  have  been  the  wind's  weird  sigh, 
In  minor  music  floating  by, 

No  music  here  resembling, 


ESSIE    B.    CHEESBOROUGH.  507 

That,  faintly  heard  in  land  of  sleep, 
Did  softly  to  my  hushed  heart  creep, 
Like  lute's  ecstatic  trembling. 

I  know  not,  but  there  came  a  dream 
Like  seraph  music,  soft,  serene, 

From  silver  harps  revealing; 
It  swept  the  air  with  fairy  flight, 
It  bore  my  soul  with  magic  might, 

To  realms  with  sunshine  streaming. 

For  in  that  dream  there  dwelt  a  thought, 
The  sweetest,  softest  ever  brought 

On  slumber's  silent  pinions ; 
Oh,  loved  one,  on  that  charmed  night, 
'Twas  thought  of  you  that  lent  me  light 

In  dream-land's  dark  dominion. 


A   SKELETON   IN  EVERY    HEART. 

Slowly  I  followed  her  through  a  long  gallery,  where  the  light  fell  on  rich 
pictures,  and  gleamed  on  the  cold  beauty  of  marble  statues.  Here  hung  the 
"Ecce  Homo,"  with  its  calm,  holy  eyes;  and  the  "Entombment,"  by 
Raphael,  with  its  bowed  figures  of  touching  grief.  Here,  marble  Niobes  and 
statues  of  Diana  stood  side  by  side,  with  Bernini's  skull  and  sleeping  child, 
emblems  of  life  and  death.  But  I  lingered  not  to  note  these  rare  gems  of 
art,  as  wonderingly  I  followed  my  silent  conductress  through  the  long  gal- 
lery. At  length  we  reached  a  door,  which  she  unlocked,  and  we  entered  a 
small  room,  dimly  lit  by  a  lamp  that  hung  from  the  ceiling.  No  window 
through  whose  crevices  the  blessed  light  of  day  could  steal,  illumined  that 
dreary  room;  no  furniture  stood  there  save  a  time-worn  couch.  From  the 
ceiling  to  the  floor  hung  a  black  curtain,  that  swayed  mournfully  as  the 
signora  closed  the  door  hurriedly.  'With  a  trembling  hand  she  moved  aside 
the  funereal  drapery,  and  fastened  it  hack.  Oh,  horrible  sight !  There  hung  a 
grim  skeleton  from  a  beam.  What  meant  this  awful  mystery — this  deathly 
spectacle?  and.  faint  at  heart,  I  sank  down  on  the  couch  before  the  dreadful 
sight.     Calm  as  one  of  her  own   marble  statues,  and  as  white,   too,   stood 


508  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Agnese ;  but  her  crimson  lip  quivered  with  a  grief  that  she  seemed  powerless 
to  express. 

"  Oh,  what  means  this,  Agnese  ?"  I  asked,  in  tones  of  agony.  She  seated 
herself  beside  me,  and  said:  "You  say  that  I  am  the  happiest  woman  in  all 
Naples.  How  far  you  are  right  you  yourself  shall  judge ;  it  is  for  this  I  have 
brought  you  here.     Listen." 

Slowly  swung  the  dim  lamp  from  the  ceiling  ;  a  cold,  chilling  atmosphere 
seemed  to  surround  us ;  and  the  grim  skeleton  grinned  in  fearful  hideousness 
from  the  beam.  I  gathered  closer  to  the  signora,  and  looked  up  into  her 
face.  How  sadly  it  gleamed  out  from  amidst  the  gloom  that  enshrouded  us, 
pure,  pale,  spiritual! 


EMELIE  C.  S.  CHILTON, 

"Whose  maiden  name  was  Swan,  was  born  at  Lost  Mound, 
Illinois,  on  the  25th  April,  1838.  When  she  was  but  five  years 
of  age,  her  mother  died,  and  she  was  left  to  the  sole  care  of  her 
father,  with  whom  she  lived  at  Galena,  during  the  first  years 
of  her  school  life.  Subsequently  she  entered  Rock  River 
Seminary,  located  at  Mount  Morris,  Illinois,  where  she  prose- 
cuted a  regular  course  of  study,  and  graduated  with  great 
credit  to  herself  and  her  teachers.  Soon  after  completing  her 
education,  she  visited  her  relatives  in  Nashville,  and  there  made 
the  accpiaintance  of  James  A.  Chilton,  an  intelligent  and  highly 
respected  gentleman  of  that  city,  to  whom  she  was  afterward 
married. 

Mrs.  Chilton  gave  early  indications  of  poetic  talent.  One 
of  her  best  poems  was  written  when  she  was  a  mere  child, 
attending  the  grammar  school  at  Galena.  Since  she  became  a 
resident  of  Nashville,  she  has  been  a  regular  contributor  to 
several  of  the  journals  and  periodicals  of  that  city  and  else- 
where.    In  May,  1859,  she  assumed  the  editorial  control  of  the 


KMELIE    C.    S.    CHILTON.  509 

"  Southern  Temperance  Monthly,"  which  her  talent  and  indus- 
try have  rendered  a  popular  and  elegant  journal.  Since  her 
connection  with  that  periodical,  most  of  her  productions  have 
appeared  in  its  columns. 

OCTOBER. 

Alone  I  sit  in  the  old  arm-chair, 

For  I  love  to  muse  on  a  quiet  day, 
And  I'm  gazing  down  on  the  old  oak  floor, 

Dreamily  watching  the  sunbeams  play. 
Noiseless  and  bright  as  spirits  they  come, 

And  quietly  look  through  the  half  open  door, 
The  beautiful  rays  of  the  autumn  sun 

Are  gently  gliding  across  the  floor. 

There's  not  e'en  the  chirp  of  a  bird  to-day, 

The  noisy  jay  from  his  nest  has  flown, 
And  nothing  is  here  save  the  ticking  clock, 

And  the  cat  asleep  on  the  warm  hearth-stone. 
October  has  come  with  its  warm,  sunny  days, 

And  has  brought  us  again  its  dreamy  breeze ; 
It  has  come  with  its  wreath  of  crimson  leaves, 

To  twine  in  a  crown  around  the  trees. 

And  over  the  tops  of  the  forest  kings, 

Is  spread  a  sky  of  ethereal  blue, 
Before  which  flit  as  in  mockery 

Those  snowy  clouds  which  the  sun  peeps  through. 
And  far  o'er  the  hills  where  the  sky  looks  down 

To  meet  the  dim  line  where,  the  forest  sways, 
Float  dark,  gorgeous  clouds,  which  resemble 

Grey,  ruined  castles  of  olden  days. 

And  the  little  brook,  with  its  moss-grown  rocks, 

It  babbles  no  more  its  merry  song, 
Bnt  its  voice  has  sunk  to  a  low,  sweet  tune, 

That  you  scarce  can  hear  as  it  glides  along. 


510  WOMEN    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  the  grasshopper  sings  a  doleful  lay, 
And  the  sunflower  bows  her  head  to  weep, 

The  vine  turns  red  o'er  the  old  stone  wall, 
And  the  butterfly-worm  has  gone  to  sleep. 

And  when  October  has  journeyed  on, 

Till  the  frost  has  silvered  his  flowing  hair, 
The  wind-voice  wails  in  a  pitiful  moan, 

Or  shrieks  aloud  as  in  wild  despair ; 
And  hoarse  and  deep  in  the  chorus  blend 

The  trees  of  the  forest  their  surging  roar, 
While  they  strew  the  gems  from  their  crimson  crowns, 

'Till  the  brown  old  earth  is  covered  o'er. 

And  then,  as  if  tired  with  scenes  of  strife, 

The  wild  wind  sinks  to  a  hollow  moan, 
As  if  'twould  grieve  for  the  sorrowing  hearts, 

Whose  dismal  wailings  are  like  its  own. 
Then  the  lightsome  tread  of  the  squirrel's  foot, 

On  the  rustling  autumn  leaves  we  hear. 
And  the  fitful  sway  of  the  lifeless  grass 

Harshly  grates  on  the  listening  ear. 

So  the  winds  wail  on  and  scatter  the  frost, 

And  all  day  long  caws  the  gloomy  crow, 
And  the  skies  grow  dim,  and  the  leaden  clouds 

Look  coldly  down  on  the  scene  below 
The  earth  looks  drear  in  her  mourning  clad, 

For  the  lovely  things  she  has  seen  decay, 
And  mournful  the  season  is,  and  sad, 

When  the  month  of  October  dies  away. 


THE  WRENS  IN  THE  LOCFST-TREE. 

I  know  of  a  nest  which  the  wild  birds  built, 
That  you  cannot  reach,  'tis  so  high, 

For  the  tree  is  strong,  and  the  thorns  are  sharp, 
And  the  branches  are  flouting  the  sky. 


EMELIE    C.   S.    CHILTON.  5H 

The  birds  sit  there  and  swing  in  the  air, 

And  warble  a  song  to  me, 
And  the  notes  come  sweet  to  my  lone  retreat, 

From  the  wrens  in  the  old  locust-tree. 

I  know  of  a  nest  which  the  wild  birds  bnilt, 

I  watched  as  they  carried  the  moss, 
And  the  little  dry  sticks  and  tender  twigs, 

And  so  cunningly  wove  them  across. 
'Twas  a  curious  thiug,  those  birds  in  the  spring, 

Were  busy  as  busy  could  be, 
Iliding  day  after  day  that  wee  nest  away, 

'Mid  the  thorns  in  the  old  locust-tree. 

I  know  of  a  nest  which  the  wild  birds  built 

And  they  sing  to  the  soft  summer  air, 
"  How  the  leaves  will  come  out  and  shade  us  about 

And  hide  all  our  eggs  lying  there. 
And  then,  by  and  by,  when  the  sun  warms  the  sky, 

Some  sweet  little  nestlings  there'll  be, 
To  flutter  and  hop  from  our  home  to  the  top 

Of  this  shadowy  old  locust-tree." 

I  know  of  a  nest  which  the  wild  birds  built, 

And  I  sit  by  my  window  and  look. 
While  very,  very  slow  does  my  needle  go, 

And  closed  is  my  favorite  book. 
The  birdie's  sweet  lay  keeps  me  dreaming  away, 

Of  how  happy  we  all  shall  be, 
They  away  up  above,  and  I  and  my  love, 

Down  here  'neath  the  old  locust-tree. 


THE      END. 


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